


My Loyalties Lie

by stranestelle



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: ...eventually, Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Torture, Family Fluff, Gen, Humiliation, Hurt/Eventual Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Skywalker Family Drama, Slavery, Suitless Darth Vader, Trauma, for the evulz and also for the money, nala se is just straight-up in league with sidious in this au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2020-12-17 16:08:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 84,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21057197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stranestelle/pseuds/stranestelle
Summary: When Anakin initially rejects Palpatine's offer to 'help' him, the Sith Lord, in a rare moment of hastiness, ships him off to Kamino to have a control chip implanted.





	1. Operation Nightfall

**Author's Note:**

> me: how about some fluff? it's good for the soul
> 
> also me: HEY what if THIS terrible thing happened???
> 
> ahem. you read the summary and clicked on this abomination anyway. this is a premise that I originally introduced in my fix-it The Masterplan but that never came to fruition in that story (it was maybe one sentence, so no, no knowledge of that fic required either). 
> 
> aaaand after literal months the idea would just not leave me alone so… yay? 
> 
> my intellectual justification for this is exploring Anakin's past (and present, ouch!) as a slave and the implications of the Republic slave army and the parallels there. and also sort of the meta-irony when we know that in the canon timeline, Anakin would have eventually said yes to Palpatine and wound up his slave quite of his own volition. anyone remember that? fun times. 
> 
> my not-so-intellectual justification is that I just really miss Palpatine and his utter awfulness. 
> 
> also, while I have read similar fics before, I don't remember coming across a story with this exact premise… but I might be wrong! or maybe YOU have read that fic. then this'll just have to be my version, won't it? 
> 
> with that out of the way, please enjoy!

”Ever since I've known you, you've been searching for a life greater than that of an ordinary Jedi… a life of significance, of conscience.”

That is certainly one way to put it.

Ever since Sidious has known Anakin, the boy has been wrestling with crippling indecision and inner conflict. Many a seed of doubt the Sith has planted himself, and watched blossom into a garden of weeds, into serpent-like vines interweaving around the boy's heart and squeezing it raw. 

It is that very fragility, concealed from most by tight lips and Jedi trappings, that renders him such easy prey, inclines his ears for Sidious' every word, even as his life's foundation crumbles under the young man's feet.

”You're wrong!”

But an exploitable weakness is a weakness nonetheless – and now, staring into the sizzling azure of Skywalker's blade, steady even in its shakiness, the Sith Lord wonders. Unlike Skywalker, self-doubt is not woven into the fundamental nature of his being, but unchecked arrogance can be just as dangerous a beast. Could he have miscalculated this time? Could he have miscalculated all along? 

Back aboard the Invisible Hand, Sidious had watched with relish as his beautiful creation had triumphed over Dooku and proved himself worthy of taking his place. But had he simply proved himself the superior swordsman? Did he not have to be pushed and pestered into striking the killing blow? Had he not scuttled straight to Kenobi afterward, clung to his Jedi mentor like a toddler to a comfort blanket?

Is Skywalker drowning so deep in vacillating waters that he would sooner swim to the familiar shore than grab a strange lifeline, just to have another moment to_ think?_

”Are you going to kill me?” Sidious asks. 

”I would certainly like to,” confesses an anguished voice. A non-committal answer.

”I know you would,” Sidious murmurs. ”And yet, you lack the resolve.”

The silence that follows seems to stretch into eternity. Only the low buzz of deadly plasma fills the room. The Force shudders with idle aggression, trembles with untapped potential, screaming to be set free of its wavering chains. 

The screams dwindle into resentful hisses as Skywalker lowers his blade and swallows hard.

”I am going to turn you over to the Jedi Council,” he announces.

Ah, yes. The shore he has come to call home. Bleak and barren like his birthworld of Tatooine, but it is home. Closing his eyes, Sidious glimpses into the future: what should happen if he lets the boy run along?

A series of images flash across his vision.

Skywalker and Windu. Soft cheeks streaked with tears… dallying, shallying. Pathetic buffoons playing at masters, chests swelling with purpose. A blur of blades, clashing in a dance of death and desperation.

Himself, tumbling to the floor, chased to a corner at blade-point - 

His apprentice, beaten and burnt and broken, a shadow of what he once was, what he yet could_ be_ – 

Sidious' eyes snap open, disgusted by what they've beheld. He ought to know better than to place blind trust in the fickle art of foresight, for much of the future remains ever shrouded in mystery, eludes even the most experienced of practitioners. But this time, he has seen enough. He will not allow a future that he may never survive to witness, where the uncertain victor gets to pick up the charred pieces of Anakin Skywalker. None of this is what he bargained for.

_Stall. And think._

”Of course, you should. But you're not sure of their intentions, are you? Are you even sure of your own?”

_What are your options?_ Kill him? No, he is essential both for the success of Order 66 and for the thriving of the First Galactic Empire. His place as Sidious' chosen apprentice and the enforcer of his coming regime is non-negotiable.

_Why Skywalker?_ Why is he essential? Sidious scoffs. Certainly not because he's such good company. The boy can be as volatile as Maul and as egotistical as Dooku. Why, it is his raw power that sets him apart. It is hardly an exaggeration to say that Sidious feels a certain entitlement to that power. How could he not, when he alone knows how to put it to good use?

”I will quickly discover the truth of all this,” Skywalker declares, and still makes no attempt to leave the Sith Lord's presence. The boy is begging to fall into a trap, a trap that Sidious has yet to set up. His frustration knows no bounds.

_Stall some more._

”You have great wisdom, Anakin,” Sidious offers. ”I'm sure you will make the right choice.” _When I leave you with none._

Skywalker scowls. Behind a thin smirk, Sidious grits his teeth. For years and years he has been grooming the boy for a higher purpose, molded and sculpted him in his own design. Sidious _created_ him. The dirty slave urchin would be _nothing_ without him. Is a shred of loyalty too much to ask?

A shred… or a_ chip?_

A shiver runs down Sidious' spine. The answer has been staring at him through millions of identical pairs of eyes. It is an ambitious venture, even by the Sith Lord's standards… but barely has the idea taken hold of him when he can already see the future shifting before his mind's eye.

He may have wanted a partner, but he will settle for a tool.

In a flurry of curls and robes, Skywalker storms off. No use in thinking twice, now. With purposeful strides, Sidious heads back to his office, bringing a wrist-comm to his mouth as he goes. ”A task for you.”

Skirting behind his desk, he works open a secret compartment in the top drawer. By the time the summoned arrive in the form of his masked bodyguards, the Sith Lord is holding up two vials of Starless Night – a Force-blocking sedative – as well as two small darts.

”My esteemed visitor will be too agitated to use the turbolift,” he explains to his aides, handing the equipment over. ”Pincer him in on the fourth floor,” – the long-neglected assembly rooms there were finally being renovated – ”and bring him back to me.”

The thing about good soldiers? They follow orders. 

-

”And I trust the General remains unaware of his situation?” Sidious inquires, eyes trained on the unconscious form that lies prone on the flickering edges of the hologram.

”The sedative you used, Chancellor, was a short-term solution,” Nala Se tells him calmly, ”but hardly up to our standards. I assure you that at present, General Skywalker remains unaware of his very existence in this universe, or indeed that of the universe, for that matter.”

”Good,” Sidious murmurs, averting his eyes from his unwitting science experiment to gaze out the panorama window of his office. ”I had to order an attack on the Senate to explain his disappearance, and I wouldn't want any… _inconsistencies_ in the narrative.”

”There will be none, my lord,” the Kaminoan states haughtily, dipping her head where it sits atop her long neck. ”I imagine you're calling to further elaborate on your wishes, seeing as you still haven't allowed us to operate?”

”I want to be absolutely sure I'm getting what I'm paying for,” Sidious growls, irked by her impudence. ”Do indulge me one more time and explain the properties of this biochip.”

”Of course, my lord,” the woman monotones, reaching to her side to pick up a petri dish, where the thin, translucent object rests dormant. ”It is a highly sophisticated model. The fundamental idea of this type of control chip is to bind the person's loyalty and obedience to the sound of their master's voice, as well as the mental conception of their master, rendering them strongly receptive to their persuasions.”

”'Strongly receptive?'” Sidious questions.

”I believe you've expressed a wish that the biochip have minimal to no effect on your associate's creativity, adaptability, or indeed their personality,” the scientist elaborates.

”Yes… much of Skywalker's power lies with his strong capacity for anger.”

”As I've explained, the biochip does not manufacture loyalty. The foundation of the… seemingly artificial obedience that it does stimulate lies in his genuine relationship with you, my lord. Rather than just being programmed to say yes, they will draw on their own positive experiences with you and justify any course of action you require by their own reasoning. Their logic will be slanted in your favor, but it will be their own. If they are prone to anger, it will be easy for you to guide their thoughts and emotions in that direction. But they will also be far more inclined to accept new beliefs and views that you hold, my lord – whatever angers you, for instance.”

Sidious rubs his chin skeptically. ”That sounds like rather a laborious thought process that he has to undergo every time.”

”Then I've misrepresented our product, Lord Sidious. Thought is often instinctive, immediate, even unconscious. If anything, the biochip will only serve to enhance his brain processing, considering he will not have to battle with divided loyalties.”

”Divided loyalties, yes. That is the very reason I require this operation. If the biochip draws from the positive relationships in his life –”

”It draws from his positive relationship with you, my lord. The idea of you as the first and foremost authority is written into the chip's very code, and will seamlessly merge in his brain with his natural-born respect and fondness of you. As for the other important relationships in his life, well, what are relationships but our subjective ideas and perceptions of other people? As I said, you will find it very easy to plant new ideas and beliefs in his head by simple cues and suggestions. Let it also be said that he will not be able to defy a direct order from you under any circumstances.”

Sidious nods his acceptance, even as he is hit with a sudden pang of conflict. Is this not what he has been doing all these years, planting ideas in the boy's head? Has Skywalker not always listened with rapt attention? Has Sidious not, indeed, naturally earned the boy's respect?

Was he too hasty in taking such desperate measures? Then he remembers the images he saw, and resigns himself to the need of a drastic intervention.

”There is one last thing,” the Sith Lord says warily. ”If you've managed to keep him under for several days now, you must already be aware of the General's exceedingly high midichlorian count, which necessitates extremely high dosages of any… invading substances.” 

”Ah, you worry whether his Force abilities might interfere with, or even try to combat the programming, for lack of a better word.”

”This is not your garden-variety Jedi,” Sidious stresses. ”The boy is the Force itself, an infinite cosmic power come to life. Like all his 'Force abilities', as you've so flippantly dubbed them, his mind shields are extraordinarily strong indeed, and give him a formidable protection against any foreign invaders.”

”That might be so, but this is not a 'foreign invader', is it?" Nala Se points out, tenting her spindly fingers. "Once the surgery is complete, the chip will be neatly and seamlessly sewn into his biology. And what reason will he have to combat impulses that he already feels drawn to? The chip does not and cannot fundamentally alter his nature, but simply neutralizes the internal conflict he feels. In fact, in a few months, potentially only weeks, he will have accepted the truths you've instilled in him as his own, to the point the chip will have become redundant. Think of the chip as a… tool to ease him into your service.”

Sidious' eyes shift from the scientist back to the motionless Jedi splayed on the table behind her wavering image. He is comforted by the prospect of eventually being able to remove the chip… and at the same time, by the option of playing it safe and leaving it in. He runs a finger along his wrinkled chin, then waves an affirmative hand.

”You may proceed with the operation.” 


	2. Surgeon's Blade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for attempted self-harm (but not really)

This could be_ it._

Vibroblade whirring in his hand, Anakin wondered if this was one of those times when it was okay to be only eighty percent sure. He'd never actually learnt a whole lot of math, just enough to know that eighty was a pretty big number. So that meant he had pretty big chances of success, right?

Anakin gulped, squeezed his eyes shut – then opened one lid, as if to check whether his arm was still there. You never know, it might have taken pity on him and torn itself off of its own accord. But there it was, still attached to his shoulder, rested against the workbench. Soft and small and vulnerable.

The boy grimaced. On second thought, utter and complete darkness suited him just fine. Why couldn't they just have stuck the damn thing into his eye?

Biting down on his lip, Anakin lowered the wildly vibrating blade ever so slightly. Even keeping the weapon just above his exposed arm, he could feel the soft whiff of air it produced, running along his skin like the first winds of a hurricane, making it tingle and tremble and –

”Ani.”

In an arch, the vibroblade was flung out of Anakin's hand, hitting the wall and cutting into the brittle material and sending bits of clay flying. Eyes wide as a Hutt's dinner plates, Anakin watched as the weapon clattered to the floor, bringing the vibration to a dramatic stop, before turning to face his weary, too-calm mother.

”We've talked about this,” Shmi reminded him, gentle but firm.

”I know, but –”

”Anakin –”

”I swear, I was really, really, _extra_ sure this time!”

Shaking her head, Shmi stepped into the room – a cramped mockery of one, anyway – and crouched down to pick up the vibroblade. Anakin opened his mouth, to tell her to be careful – but the way she held the object was textbook-correct and cautious.

”This is not some junkyard find,” she observed after a minute, keeping her composure even as she fixed her son with a stern look. ”Where did you get this?”

”I… that is, um…” Anakin scratched his cheek, eyes sweeping the floor. ”Bruni got it from this guy and –”

”Bruni? One of those older boys who bully you?”

”They don't_ bully_ me!” Anakin burst out defensively. ”They're just a bunch of _kung,_ is all.”

Shmi heaved a deep breath. ”Bruni got it 'from this guy', and then it came to be in your possession how exactly?”

Anakin pursed his lips. ”Well, the thing is… Bruni's been having kind of a tough time lately. Varice is not feeding him properly, and… he thought about selling the blade, but he knew that Varice would find out, somehow. Bruni said he's so greedy, it's like he's –” The boy waved his hands across the air, bringing them apart and back together again. ”Magnetically drawn to the smell of money, or something.” It wasn't a very good expression, Anakin thought, but then, Bruni wasn't a very good… expresser.

Shmi had been nodding along with the story, equal parts of empathy and worry, but now her lips parted slightly as realization washed over her face. ”That's where you've been smuggling your lunches. As payment.”

Anakin gasped. ”You knew about that?”

His mother shuffled across the narrow space and sat down beside him. ”At first, I figured you'd just gotten tired of my company,” she chuckled, running a hand along Anakin's back, ”and maybe you and Kitster had found another of those abandoned vaporator towers and wanted to have lunch together with a view. But then, when your stomach kept rumbling and you were always dizzy –”

”But I haven't been_ all_ that hungry –”

”Good,” Shmi murmured. 

Anakin frowned, confused by her response. A full minute passed until understanding dawned on him, causing him to groan and avert his eyes in shame. ”Because _you_ have.” When Shmi just offered him a smile, one of those smiles that seemed to defeat the purpose of smiling, Anakin demanded, ”Are you mad at me, Mom?”

A moment of silence passed as Shmi twisted around and reached across the workbench for – Anakin knew exactly _what,_ and made half a move to stop her – but what would be the point? With a studious expression, she looked the object over, examining the assorted scraps that her son had somehow glued together. Now that the excitement had worn off, Anakin had to admit, the whole contraption did look just a little bit silly, the square-yet-asymmetric shape, the cracked screen, the mismatched handles at the sides –

But it _worked._ Really, it did.

”Will you show me how it works?” his mother asked, reading her son's mind. 

Anakin suspected a trap – he was in trouble, wasn't he?– but nodded. She handed the device over, and he activated it from a simple on-off button that used to belong to a starship dashboard. The scanner whirred to life and the screen lit up with only a slight delay. ”Okay, so…” He held up the device a little awkwardly, screen toward himself. ”Basically, I point this at you –”

”Why don't you demonstrate on yourself first,” Shmi proposed.

”Okay, no problem,” Anakin said. ”It's basically like a metal detector, except instead of metal, it's designed to react to three separate components found inside the transmitter. One is the ferrite core – inside the inductor – and second is the capacitor – where the electrical energy is stored – and finally the detrogin, even small traces of it – that's the explosive substance…” Trailing off into mumbles, Anakin brought the scanner above his forearm, eyeing the screen on the other side as he did.

When nothing happened, he made a frustrated sound, fingers flying to the activation button. ”Sometimes, it takes a while to warm up –” Flush climbing on his cheeks, Anakin turned the scanner off and then on again.

A low string of _bleep bleep bleep_ sounded out. Shmi tilted her head curiously. Anakin allowed himself a vague quirk of his lips. ”See? It's right in there, I know it is. And I have this scar here, too –” He pointed at the faintly dark line on his skin, running horizontally just below the wrist.

”That's a burn,” Shmi explained calmly. ”You got it when you were four, when Gardulla's radiator exploded. I remember that day like yesterday, I'd never been so frightened.”

Anakin blinked, nonplussed. ”But –”

”Anakin, why don't you try scanning your leg next.”

”My leg? But –” The boy obeyed anyway, reaching down and running the scanner along his calf.

_Bleep, bleep, bleep…_

Motioning impatiently, Anakin waited for the beeping to stop – damn thing was always lagging – but when the sound just droned on, he looked up at his mother, helpless.

”Alright, now try it on the wall,” Shmi suggested, pointing at the spot where the vibroblade had landed to wreak havoc. Cheeks burning with embarrassment, Anakin did as he was told. He was starting to catch on, and he didn't like what he was catching on _to. _

And sure enough, the moment the scanner made contact with the lifeless clay, the bleeping stopped then and there. When he pulled the gadget back and pointed it in the general direction of his mother, it blared into life once more.

Defeated, Anakin dropped the glorified arts and crafts project at his feet as he flopped down into seat beside Shmi. Her hand settled on his back again.

For a while, they just sat there in dismal silence.

Then, out of the blue, Shmi murmured, ”Well, I would classify this as a success.”

Anakin twisted to gape at her. Smiling at his surprise, she elaborated, ”From what I observed, there is no doubt that Version 4.0 can detect the _infinitesimally small_ transmitter chip implanted somewhere in your body. That's _amazing,_ Ani.” She rubbed his back harder. ”My son is a genius.”

”But I – but it doesn't –” Anakin tried to protest, blinking back tears. 

”You're right,” she whispered conspiratorially, ”you must _not_ let Watto find it. Promise me you'll hide it well, okay, Ani?”

”I promise, but –” Anakin spluttered. Warm, salty droplets stung at his eyes. Groaning in frustration, he scrubbed them away with the back of his hand.

When his vision cleared, Shmi was holding the vibroblade again. ”If it's alright with you,” she hummed thoughtfully. ”I was thinking, we could to sell this and use the money to buy food for Bruni and his sister.”

Anakin nodded in vigorous agreement, though his breath caught a couple of times before he was able to form words. ”I… I think that's a great idea, Mom.”

Wiping a last wet trail from Anakin's cheek, Shmi smiled down at him, before throwing her arms around his small form and enveloping him in a warm embrace. They stayed like that for while, swaying back and forth in comfortable – _comforting_ – silence, until finally Shmi pulled back and looked her son solemnly in the eye.

”Anakin…” Her tone had grown earnest. ”Someday… things _will_ be different. _You_ will be different, your life will be different, _so_ very different, I couldn't even begin to imagine it. I pro –” She cut herself off, hesitating for just a moment. ”I know I shouldn't be promising you this. But I _do._ I promise you, Ani. Because somehow… I just _know_.”

Anakin nodded. ”I think… I think I just know, too,” he confessed, then hastened to add, ”And Mom? I just know it about the_ both_ of us.”

Resting her hand on the back of his neck, Shmi leaned down to kiss her son's forehead.

-

”Mom… _Mom_…”

Despite Anakin's pleas to the contrary, it is not Shmi Skywalker's face that swims into view when he opens his eyes. It is not, because she is long gone and is never coming back. Anakin can scarcely bear to think of her without going mad with anger and shame and grief all over again, and he cannot understand why his mind is suddenly tormenting him like this.

The face that does greet him belongs to Obi-Wan Kenobi. Groaning under his breath, Anakin scrunches his eyes shut and tries to wipe away the last, lingering images of his mother. Why now, he doesn't want to think about her right now, he can't afford to think about her right now, not when –

A sudden flash of recollection shocks him wide awake and bolt upright. ”Where am I?” he demands from the Jedi at his bedside, who flinches back at the sudden movement.

”Shh,” Obi-Wan soothes him. ”It's alright, you're at the Jedi temple.” Vaguely, Anakin does recognize the clinical white interior of the infirmary.

”Obi-Wan…” the young man murmurs, as his mind sluggishly processes that his Master is indeed there, and not another figment of his imagination. Heavy, dark shadows hang on those familiar features. ”What happened?” Anakin questions. ”Why am I here?”

”There was an attack on the Senate,” Obi-Wan explains calmly, ”while I was still on Utapau.”

”Utapau – Grievous –” Anakin scowls. He is distantly aware of a faint, dull pain thrumming in the back of his head, though it is a mere tickle compared to the sudden flood of information drowning his senses and overwhelming every fiber of his being.

”Dead,” Obi-Wan tells him, a momentary relief sweeping over his face, before the darkness settles back in. ”Anakin… do you remember what –?”

”Wait,” Anakin cuts him off as new terror creeps into his heart. His dreams – _Padmé_ – ”How long has it been?”

”Since the attack? About two weeks.”

”Two weeks –” Anakin's feet move of their own accord, swinging over the side of the bed and getting as far as two paces into a run – but then Obi-Wan is there, gently pushing him back, and the blood that hasn't yet reached Anakin's head cannot argue the point.

”Anakin, please –” Obi-Wan implores, trying to maneuver him into a lying position. "You need to rest." 

”Padmé –” Anakin croaks breathlessly. His head is spinning like a N-1-fighter crash-landing into a tornado, sinking into the pillow without his consent. ”Please, I need to know. Is she safe? Is she alright?”

His heart swells when Obi-Wan nods. ”The last I heard, Senator Amidala – Padmé, was… recovering at the Coruscant Medcenter. Anakin, please, all in good time.”

”Recovering?” Anakin echoes with bated breath.

”I believe congratulations are in order,” Obi-Wan says, unable to stifle a smile. ”But all in good time,” he repeats, patting Anakin's shoulder.

Anakin can hardly process his relief. No, relief is too mild a word. _Happiness._ A delirious, unfathomable happiness. Just what in the world has happened? Who could have done this, who could have changed fate itself? He woke up, and the world was perfect, everything was perfect. Who made it perfect?

And then it hits him.

_”He could actually save people from death?”_

_”The dark side of the Force is a pathway to many abilities some consider to be unnatural.”_

_”You know the dark side?”_   
  
_”Only through me can you achieve a power greater than any Jedi. Learn to know the dark side of the Force, Anakin, and you will be able to save your wife…”_

_”You're the Sith Lord!”_

_”…from certain death.”_

Anakin's mouth opens without his permission and a string of unintelligible syllables sputter out. Palpatine. Sith –

Obi-Wan frowns at him. ”What's wrong?”

Anakin rewards his concern with a blank stare. Nothing is wrong. Everything is different. The world has turned upside down. ”T-the Chancellor,” he finally stutters out. ”The attack – is he –?”

Obi-Wan's lips scrunch into a thin line before parting again. ”The Chancellor is alive and well,” he announces. ”However… the police are investigating the attack as an assassination attempt, and Palpatine has declared a national emergency for the duration of the investigation. They've tightened the security around him, and –” He cuts himself off with a shake of the head. ”But please, you need not concern yourself with any of that right now.”

”No, I need to speak to him,” Anakin insists before he can better weigh his words. ”I have – it's_ important_.”

”Important how?”

”It's, ah,” Anakin stumbles. ”I might have some information on the attack.”

”As a Jedi, you answer to us first,” Obi-Wan reminds him.

A flare of frustration runs through Anakin's nostrils. For a while he sulks in silence, gaze dropping to the monotone white of his hospital gown.

Then, with an exaggerated grimace, he cranes his head back, hands flying to clutch his temples. ”Actually… I think my mind might just be playing tricks on me. Maybe you're right. Maybe I do need some rest.”

A calloused hand finds Anakin's arm and squeezes warmly. ”I'll leave you to it.” With a final quirk of his lips, the Jedi Master gets up and heads for the door. In the doorway, he turns around one more time. ”I am very glad to see you, dear friend.”

Anakin gives a small smile. ”You, too, Obi-Wan.”

-

Putting the needs of others before one's own is a very curious philosophy. Those in need have already lost, being too weak to take what is theirs, provide for themselves even the barest necessities. Those who need have nothing to give, and to say otherwise is sheer delusion. But by all means, let them fight over the scraps, share the scraps, regurgitate the scraps to feed to their dogs.

Indeed, it is the wants of the world that define its essence. The wants of those strong enough to want at all. And putting the wants of others before one's own, now _that_ Sidious can understand. Wants are exploitable; the weaknesses of the strong. There are many of those who want too little and too desperately, offering their desires on a silver plate for Sidious, laying them before his feet as stepping stones to bigger and better things.

The first rule of power: never want anything so desperately as to lose sight of what it wants in return.

”The last thing I remember,” the young man in the hospital gown whispers. He chews on his lip, hesitating for a while. ”…is leaving this office. You said –” Sidious waits patiently, letting out a warm sigh. Indeed, he now has all the patience, all the time in the world. ”…well, you said a great deal of things. But you told me – you told me you could save Padmé.”

It doesn't mean one has to _give_ them what they want. But indeed, when the future shifted, the stars did not only align in Sidious' favor. They gave Anakin Skywalker what he wanted – and what he wanted was an infinite debt of gratitude.

”Indeed, my boy, I did,” Sidious hums, chuckling under his breath. ”'My boy'… Listen to me, infantilizing a new father.”

”Thank you sir,” the boy in question stutters – his boy, his prize, his forever. ”I was wrong about you - the Jedi are wrong about you. I – I can never thank you enough. I can't believe she's really – that the babies – I'm going to go see them right now.”

He turns on his heel, white hems sweeping, but Sidious gives a wave of his hand and the doors slide shut. Anakin whirls around, confused.

”My dear friend,” Sidious croons. ”All in good time.”

”…Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”


	3. Detour

”Why don't you take a seat, Anakin,” Palpatine proposes, and the Jedi does as he is told. No sooner have their eyes locked than he is suddenly thoroughly engrossed with the man behind those deceptively blue orbs. All else is secondary; it is only distantly that he wishes he'd gone to the medcenter first. He can't even bother to be embarrassed about his lacking state of dress, or wonder what _did_ possess him to sneak out of the Temple looking like an asylum patient. 

Palpatine sits down behind his desk, across from Anakin. Then, with a vague gesture, he does opt to comment on his visitor's improper attire, ”Good heavens, my boy, you look like you've escaped from somewhere.” 

”The Jedi Temple,” Anakin admits. The mention of his home of twelve years has him pausing for a beat, a stark reminder of who he is, and with whom he is keeping company. A paradox, an oxymoron. The Sith Lord who saved his wife. 

”Indeed…” Palpatine muses. ”And did they tell you what happened?”

”No…” Anakin mumbles in reply. ”They – Obi-Wan mentioned the attack on the Senate – the attempted assassination –” 

”Ah, yes,” the Chancellor hums, running a finger along his jaw.

”Was it the Separatists, sir?” 

Palpatine seems to weigh his words before answering. ”So the public has been led to believe. A last desperate strike… at their last desperate hours.”

”I don't even remember it,” Anakin confesses with shame and frustration. ”I don't remember _anything._ I don't know who knocked me out… or how… or how they managed to keep me that way.”

”An impressive feat… to be sure,” Palpatine drawls. 

Something about his tone suggests a hidden insinuation, prompting Anakin to ask, ”How do you mean, sir?”

Palpatine's gaze bores into him like a laser. ”May I speak frankly, my boy? I may not have always had your trust… but you have always had mine.” 

”Yes… _yes,_ of course.” Anakin leans forward with anxious interest. A part of him advises caution – reminds him he's wading in murky waters. Still, he can't seem to muster much in the way of apprehension. There is a sense of… security grounding him to the present moment, like an anchor. Surely, the Force has brought him where he needs to be. 

”All signs point to Jedi involvement in the attack.” 

Anakin swallows, that dearly missed apprehension gathering into a lump in his throat. Still, the benefit of the doubt is the least he can give to the man to whom he owes Padmé's life. ”You're certain, sir?” 

”The police are certain,” Palpatine clarifies. There is a charged pause as he gazes into a far-away horizon. ”We are days, possibly only hours away from taking… drastic action.”   
Anakin sighs, gaze dropping to his lap. 

But… he should not be surprised. It's all coming to a head – the Council's long-standing mistrust of the Chancellor, the Chancellor's suspicions of an impending Jedi coup. And he knows the Jedi have never shied away from ruthless measures so long as they feel justified in their cause. In the end, the Jedi and the Sith are natural-born enemies. 

In the end… it is as Palpatine said.

Anakin has to make a choice.

”The Jedi… know about you?” he asks lamely. 

”Does it matter?” Palpatine counters. Anakin is hard-pressed for an answer. Does it puzzle him? A little. Does it matter? Maybe not. Rather than give him time to ruminate, Palpatine interlaces his fingers and adds, ”I believe you said… you woke up at the Jedi Temple.” 

Anakin frowns at the seeming non sequitur – until sudden understanding hits him, tugging his mouth open. ”Wait, you think the Jedi – when they came to kill you that day. That they saw me, and… saw an obstacle, rather than an ally.” The young man stares blankly ahead. For months now, he's been butting heads with the Council over Palpatine – but he never imagined – 

The Chancellor gives a mournful smile. ”I think deep down they knew… where your loyalties truly lie.” 

”So they removed me from the picture… so they could –” Anakin draws back in his seat, processing this. It doesn't seem to make a whole lot of sense, what he's suggesting – it's too convenient, too coincidental, rife with inconsistencies – and yet, something about the idea of him turning against his own in defense of Palpatine – of Padmé – rings true to him.

Maybe… just maybe. The Jedi were_ right_ not to trust him. 

”Upon their failure, they sought to implicate the Separatists,” Palpatine explains. ”And as for you… their precious, compromised Chosen One,” he flashes a smirk, ”I can only imagine they were hoping to have disposed of me by the time you regained… mobility. That was the only way they saw to… _salvage_ you as an asset. Taking you out of the fray… like a spoil of war.” 

Anakin sinks deeper into his chair. ”I – I don't really know what to think…” 

”Oh, but I think you do,” Palpatine suggests. 

After a minute, Anakin tilts up his gaze. ”I think I do, too.” He purses his lips. He could still turn back, if he so desired. _But_ – was his heart not already set when – ”I just have one question.”

”Do tell.” 

”Just, out of curiosity… how did you do it? How were you able to save my wife?” 

There is a peculiar quality to the smile that forms on Palpatine's lips. ”Tell me, Anakin. How… _deep_ is this curiosity?” 

Rather than answer him, Anakin pushes back his chair and stands up, determination and purpose blazing in his eyes. Palpatine's gaze follows the young man as he moves behind the desk separating them, chair whirling to face the Jedi as he comes to a somber stop in front of him. 

Then, like an angel fallen from flight, he drops to his knees. 

-

Padmé Amidala has always prided herself on her inner fortitude. Or perhaps that is the wrong way to put it, as it implies some fixed state of being; some rare, innate quality that only few possess. But if there's one lesson that her short, crazy life has taught her, it is that bravery is a choice. 

Time and again, just when things have seemed the bleakest, she has chosen to be brave. Chosen to be strong. Chosen to keep going. When the Trade Federation threatened to massacre her people, she kept going. When she was condemned to die beside the love of her life, she kept going. Through the jeers and squabbles and power struggles and the absolute circus she faces every day at the Senate, she keeps going. Keeps smiling. Stays strong. 

She is unable to stay strong any longer. 

”I don't understand –” she sniffles into a corner of her blanket. Whatever terrible mess is supposed to pass for her face and hair still does not do justice to the turmoil within. ”How could this have happened? First he vanishes for two weeks, misses the birth of his children, then he's back, and then he's gone again!” Tears stream down her cheeks, her breaths come in pitiful chokes and gasps, and she tries to blame the hormones, the fatigue, the stress… but then, the culprit hardly matters, does it? She is sick with worry and sick of this life and sick of his life and at this rate, she is going to be sick all over the bedsheets, too – 

”I'm sorry,” Obi-Wan laments, with a heart-hurting sincerity. ”I thought for sure, I would find him here.” Leaning over the side of her bed, he reaches out a hand to hold hers. Her other hand is still clutching the blanket, like it's her lone tether to the material world, to this unforgiving reality that she wishes she could just weep away. Where is this all even coming from, with the tears and the snot and the spiraling into hysteria, and what entitles her to such extravagance? Here she is, a woman in her prime, in good health, in a privileged position, with a steady income, who just had two miraculous, perfect babies, throwing a tantrum over the fact that her husband… probably just took a detour for flowers on his way here, or something – 

”You said he didn't take his Jedi robes.” 

Obi-Wan pinches his eyes shut, obviously deeply regretting having said that. ”Padmé…” he sighs. ”The Jedi Temple is impenetrable. I know this is troubling, but –” 

”But what?” she snaps. ”But the Jedi temple is impenetrable? You ever heard of circular reasoning?” 

”Padmé…”

”I'm sorry._ I'm sorry_… none of this is your fault. You've been a true friend to us, and I couldn't be more –” She trails off, staring off into distance, flashing back to that time when she went into labor in the middle of a heated Senate session and her husband was missing and the Republic was falling apart and two entire human beings were migrating out of her and if the damn traitor had to pick _this_ of all times to abandon her, she would get the next best thing, _dammit – _

Between contractions, she'd rehearsed a whole speech in her head, but on the way to the medcenter the words just dissolved away, along with three years' worth of lies and pretense and knowing ignorance. In a single lock of eyes, a thousand words were spoken. All of them nothing but loving and gentle and understanding. 

”It's just…” she finally breaks the silence. ”I _know_ my husband. For – weeks, he's been – he was having these – ” She bites her lip. Sometimes, even a thousand words are just not quite enough. ”I _know_… right at this moment, he would want nothing more than to see me happy and healthy and his children alive and well and our family together.” She squeezes Obi-Wan's hand, signifying inclusion. 

”That is all I want for him as well,” the Jedi Master assures her, eyes flicking to the crib that stands at the foot of her bed. For a while, they just listen to the soft snuffles of breathing that fill the room, seeking shared comfort in abstract ideas of innocence and hope and new sunrises and fresh starts. Then a sudden glint of what looks like realization flashes in Obi-Wan's gaze. Padmé all but jumps with the spark of hope that is rekindled in her heart. 

”What? What?” she demands when Obi-Wan shoots up from his chair. ”Did you remember something? You know where he is?”

He clenches his jaw, but nods. ”I think so.” 

”Thank you, Obi-Wan,” Padmé calls after the Jedi Master as he suddenly springs through the door. ”Thank you for _everything_ –”

It is not the ominous 'don't thank me yet' that she receives in response, but it is something to that effect. 

-

The Jedi are taught to respect life in all its forms, but Obi-Wan Kenobi just does not like Sheev Palpatine in the least. There is just something… _off_ about the man that he can't seem to put his finger on. Although… blaster to his temple, he would point to his friendship with Anakin. He can sort of understand his friend's longing for a father – but the Republic's most important head-of-state befriending someone who was not so long ago just a small boy from the Outer Rim? What does he stand to gain from the association? Politicians are always after _something, _he muses as a sudden chill clenches around his heart. 

And the supposed coincidence of Palpatine being the last person to see Anakin before he went missing, Anakin just happening to be there at the time of the attack? Then turning up at the temple a fortnight later, confused and agitated and falling over his feet to see the man? The whole business just sends shivers down his spine. 

Obi-Wan swears, if he indeed finds his wayward Padawan in that garish red office robed in nothing but a hospital gown, that's _it._ For years he turned a blind eye to his sneaking off to Senator Amidala's apartment, but this time he will personally deliver him to the hospital and into the good care of his entire growing family, if the alternative is – whatever the alternative is. He doesn't want to know, but it's all he wants to know. 

He meant what he said to Padmé. He did some soul-searching while Anakin was gone – for good, for all he knew. The two of them facing near-death experiences on a daily basis has not blinded him to that eventuality. 

And what did he find in his soul, in the buried recesses of the deep within? Three… images, each as different from the last as summer is from autumn is from winter. 

The first was of him and Anakin, fighting side by side, sharing a private joke between ducks and dodges. The scrappy boy from the desert grown into a man, a far finer Jedi than he could ever hope to be. A hero of the people, the pride and joy of his Master.

The second was an idyllic scene of the lush fields of Naboo, a family of four engaged in a rather noisy game of tag. A pair of gray eyes watching from afar, the corners of them crinkling with a wistful fondness. The lonely, friendless boy from the Temple, outgrown his Jedi robes and into his own skin. 

The third depicted a funeral pyre, coils of smoke rising to the nocturnal sky. Crackling flames dancing in the chill of the night, eating through the linen and synth-leather, the empty trappings of a Jedi long lost. 

One of the visions - he only later realized - has already come to pass. 

Another, he never_ will_ let pass. 

All… all he wants is for his Padawan to be happy. 

Though it is that same chilly wind, from the picture never to be, that gusts through his bones as he makes his way through the long hallways of the Senate. Amid his growing disquiet, he wonders why no one has tried to stop him yet. He knows the security around the Chancellor has been increased since the attack – an arrangement that affects all who so much as set foot in this building or within a fifty-meter radius of the man himself. And it is not as though no one is paying him any attention. Sweeping through the corridors, he can feel stern gazes darting to him, recognition flashing in them before one after another lets him steal past. Near the Chancellor's office, a fresh-faced security guard makes the apparent mistake of nodding to him – earning an elbow in the ribs from his senior colleague.

But whatever apprehension Obi-Wan has amassed by the time he reaches that lurid red office dissipates before the scene that greets him. Taking its place comes relief – then confusion – followed by a feeling of an unmistakable_ wrongness_ that he cannot quite place. 

Anakin stands in the center of the room, his back to Obi-Wan and front to the Chancellor. Upon the Jedi Master's entrance, Palpatine smiles. Anakin spins around. Dressed in black from head to toe, he… _scowls_ at the newcomer. 

”Ah, Master Kenobi, punctual as always,” Palpatine says pleasantly. ”Indeed, it is reassuring to have something to rely on, in these fickle times.” 

”I aim to please,” Obi-Wan quips - although, _punctual?_ \- striding into the room as the doors snap closed behind him. He draws a breath to address Anakin, only Palpatine is quicker.   
  
”Lord Vader, the time has come for you to prove your loyalty.”


	4. Promise

_Lord Vader. _

The words don't mean anything to Obi-Wan – and yet, it is upon hearing them that he is able to identify the origin of the_ wrongness._ It is Anakin. His presence in the Force is… not right. Anakin is not right. It is him, but… alien. Altered. _Wrong. _

But it is what happens next that gives the word a whole new meaning. Whatever his sentiments on Sheev Palpatine, never in his wildest imagination could Obi-Wan have conjured up the scene that now unfolds before him: the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic, producing a lightsaber from his robes and handing it to Anakin. And not just any lightsaber – the turbulent vibrations in the Force give away what the ignition of the blade confirms – a _red_ lightsaber. 

”Anakin…” Obi-Wan whispers, and is pointedly ignored as Palpatine holds the young man's gaze. 

”It is not ideal, of course,” the elderly man tells him. His voice is a horrible, grating croak, a far cry from the steely-yet-serene tones of the Chancellor. ”But I believe you should find this…_ very responsive._”

Obi-Wan cannot seem to choke out another word. Anakin, it appears for a moment, cannot either, only giving a perfunctory nod as he accepts the offering. But when Palpatine's gaze drills into him, the boy murmurs, ”Thank you… my Master.”

A numbness settles in Obi-Wan's chest._ No… no. Anything… anything but this. _

The pair whirl toward Obi-Wan, Palpatine throwing an idle nod in the Jedi's direction. ”Kill him." 

There is a sharp jerk in the Force – an_ unfettering,_ of sorts– and if Anakin's signature was strange before, it is unrecognizable now. The scowl deepens on his brow as he gives the borrowed saber an experimental twirl, emanating distinct deadly intent. 

Before the full, surreal horror of the situation can sink in, Obi-Wan finds himself in the thick of the battle. He draws his lightsaber just in time to parry Anakin's first few strikes, raining on him like an erupting volcano. Obi-Wan pulls back, farther and farther back, dodging and parrying while sputtering desperately, ”Why are you doing this? Anakin, it's _me!_ Obi-Wan!” The Jedi Master is tempted to elaborate – _your friend, your brother! _– but decides this would be redundant at best. Anakin knows him. And Anakin is trying to kill him. 

But Obi-Wan knows Anakin too; specifically, he is intimately familiar with his fighting style, a particularly forceful and idiosyncratic variant of Djem So. Even amid his distress, the Jedi is able to navigate through his student's moves well enough, and and scarcely a second passes when he isn't struck by a sense memory from one of their innumerable sparring sessions from over the years. Parry, parry, dodge, duck, parry – Anakin's skill, speed and strength may all be far superior, but Obi-Wan has the benefit of both familiarity and experience on his side. 

Palpatine shuffles behind his desk, sitting back to enjoy the show, and Obi-Wan is reminded that he isn't, in fact, in the middle of a sparring session. Managing to maneuver their blades into a lock, Obi-Wan takes advantage of the momentary respite to shout at his friend, ”I don't know what lies he's told you, but that's what they are!_ Lies!_ You know that, don't you?”

Anakin's sole response is to break the lock and launch into a chain of swings with growing aggression. Obi-Wan is forced to counter with matching vigor, even as he continues to give ground. Between strikes, he catches flashes of Anakin's face, screwed with unfathomable feelings simmering underneath. The Jedi Master struggles to wrap his head around the fact that_ this_ is the same man who awoke at the temple mere hours ago – 

”At least tell me what's happened,” he begs just as Anakin aims a swing at his lower half, a distraction that almost costs him an arm and a leg. Unresponsive to orders as ever, Anakin just presses on with the feverish assault, saber whizzing across the air like a shooting star. 

Mid-blow, the younger man makes a momentary but obvious mistake, resulting in a momentary but obvious opening – an opportunity that Obi-Wan can't bring himself to exploit. This does not slip Anakin's notice, his opponent's wild eyes meeting the false calm in his for just a passing second. Obi-Wan heaves a hurried breath, to say something – but the words get stuck in his throat. Anakin recovers quickly from the disruption, lunging at his opponent in an acrobatic arch. 

The Jedi Master is forced to ask himself just how exactly he pictures this little skirmish ending – assuming he's the one who gets to decide; a responsibility he's not sure he desires. To kill Anakin is out of the question. That leaves him with either serious injury or escape, likely both in immediate succession. But it would mean abandoning his friend – abandoning Anakin – 

If only he could somehow get the boy away from here, away from Palpatine – he just wants to _talk_ – 

Anakin, sadly, seems to desire anything but, diving into another sequence of strikes that almost sends Obi-Wan up against the wall. To avoid this perilous position, he backpedals into a corridor connecting to an adjacent room. Over Anakin's shoulder, he can just see the Sith Master rising to trail behind them, his brow creasing with something resembling… frustration, even as he follows at a leisurely pace. 

Anakin moves in lithe and lethal motions like a dark lightning, all but shoving Obi-Wan into the next room, whose walls loom gray and nondescript like an overcast sky. The expert duelist's near-impenetrable Soresu is still keeping up, reacting to his opponent in a fluent, intuitive fashion. 

But while Obi-Wan may have several of Anakin's most favored series memorized, the person in front of him continues to be a terrible, unimaginable enigma. Draped in all-black, contorted features illuminated in red, teeth bared in a snarl, eyes empty – what _is_ Obi-Wan looking at, and how much longer can be bear such torture? 

After-images of fiery scarlet plasma burst across his retinas when a series of blocks repeatedly force his eyes closed. His ears ring with distorted echoes of _thank you, my Master_. The unthinkable claws its way to the far edges of his consciousness: is he, in fact, in the presence of a Sith apprentice? Could it be that Anakin _really_ has betrayed him, betrayed all he once held dear? 

”You don't have to do this,” Obi-Wan yells over the hum of the sabers, somehow steering them into another lock. Pushing hard with the Force, he is able to prevent his opponent from breaking the formation. In the heat of the moment, the words pour out of his mouth; unbidden, unbridled. ”I've just been to the medcenter –_ Padmé_ – Padmé is there waiting for –” 

He trails off abruptly when he hears himself._ Padmé is there waiting for Anakin. _

_The creature in front of me is not Anakin. _

Scarcely has that horrid truth congealed in his mind when there is a sudden shift in the Force. Where the air was pervaded by an eerie chill, there is now a burst of manic, raging energy. Obi-Wan flinches back when he locates the source, sparks of fury erupting from the furnace that is its eyes. 

”Why were you at the medcenter?!” Anakin demands, words spitting out of his mouth like venom. He struggles harder against the blade-lock, eyes burning with a new… _darkness._ _”Tell me!" _

Obi-Wan is distantly aware of the low guffaw that sounds from the doorway. He pushes back with a pained groan. ”Anakin, please –”

Rather than do anything of the sort, Anakin brings the locked blades apart with one tempest of a push, sending Obi-Wan staggering back against the wall. Bouncing himself off the surface, Obi-Wan just about maintains his balance, but Anakin is back on him within a fraction of a time unit. And if the Jedi Master thought his form was aggressive before, clearly he had not seen anything yet. Each of his opponent's swings now comes at him with all the natural might of a hurricane, the red blade hunting him across the room with the deadly precision of a laser ray. 

_”You stay away from her!”_ Anakin screams, crimson tearing across the air._ ”You stay away!_” Obi-Wan is springing off walls and blocking strikes and moving his feet and managing all of this just barely – 

”I did warn you, Vader,” Palpatine chuckles from the doorway. ”The Jedi cannot be trusted, not even – _especially_ those among them you used to call… friends.” 

”But this serpent can be?” Obi-Wan chokes out, raising his trusted blue for yet another block. Anakin growls through his teeth. 

The red saber is but a blur now.

Anakin is a black streak.

Obi-Wan's blue is everywhere. 

But then, there's a new color, glowing harsh through the haze of plasma – the unmistakable _yellow_ in Anakin's eyes –

_No – _

The distraction proves fatal. Next thing Obi-Wan knows, he's been knocked off his feet and against the wall. His hand is no longer clasped around a solid cylinder shape. He opens his eyes to find the missing weapon in Anakin's hand – ignited blade pointed at Obi-Wan's throat. Those horrible sulphur eyes glare down at him. 

”Good, good,” a croak wafts from a few paces away as Palpatine crosses the room to the scene. In one whisk of his free hand, Anakin floats the borrowed weapon back to its owner. 

The heat from the other saber sears down on Obi-Wan's neck. So this is how it ends. Well, it's not a _boring_ way to go. 

”Lord Vader… you know what to do.”

Anakin heaves a deep breath. Obi-Wan can feel the scorching tip slightly shift over his neck. 

Then he senses it. The conflict. It is momentary, it is faint as a whisper, but it is there. And it is his salvation. 

Another move from Anakin, another passing second, and Obi-Wan's throat would have opened in a burning, clean gash. Instead, the Jedi Master capitalizes on his opponent's fleeting hesitation to throw out his hand in a fierce Force push. He yelps when he feels the saber-tip graze his neck in a vertical line as its wielder is tossed violently back. He sees Palpatine leaping up in his periphery – but this time, Obi-Wan is faster than either of his two enemies. Launching himself across the space, he dives for the blue saber, wrenching the stolen weapon off Anakin's hand before the boy can regain his bearings. 

-

When Vader regains his bearings, he's been yanked to his feet. Warm breath coasts over the back of his ear. A searing heat gathers where a blue glow hovers under his chin. His Master is staring at him, saber poised, and sickened. 

His former Master – turned captor – shouts over Vader's shoulder, ”I did not miss the rather resonant _clack_ your doors made when I walked in, Chancellor. I'll know my way out, but if you would just be a gentleman and hold the door open? I'll appreciate it.” Slowly, Obi-Wan starts walking backwards, towing his hostage across the room and into the corridor connecting the two spaces, turning them around so his eyes (and Vader's) remain on Sidious at all times. 

Vader hears himself groan with humiliation and anger. Still, he tries not to jostle too much in his current position, the narrow space between Obi-Wan's chest and certain death. 

”I_ will_ kill him if you do not comply,” the Jedi Master threatens as he continues to backpedal. Anakin swallows a bitter lump in his throat. _Does he mean that? _

”Now, I do not believe you mean that, Master Kenobi,” Sidious ventures a guess, following the pair at a relaxed pace. The ire is gone from his face, replaced by his usual, quiet confidence.

”No?” Obi-Wan counters. ”Might I remind your Excellency that Sith Lords are my specialty?” He pulls Vader by the shoulder over into the main office, jerking rather harder than needed. ”And this _is_ a Sith, is it not? You really think I will hesitate?” 

At the reminder, Vader cannot stop another ashamed noise from escaping his mouth. They're right by the door now. 

Sidious throws him a cool nod. ”Then be my guest,” he drawls. ”By all means, kill him.” 

The blade shifts on Vader's throat. Vader cannot turn his head without risking the bottom of his chin, but his eyes dart away. 

”I'll give you a moment to reconsider,” Obi-Wan shoots back. ”It seems to me you've invested a lot of time and effort in this…” He tugs at Vader's shoulder again. ”…_this._” 

Sidious dips his head, appearing to think it over. 

A fair while passes before the Sith Master raises his gaze again, giving a small flick of his wrist as he does. The doors fling open. 

Vader does not miss the meaningful glint in Sidious' eyes before Obi-Wan yanks him along. _Do not fail me again._

Obi-Wan forces him through the short passage leading into the hallway. Blue flames lick at Vader's throat. Vader hears the other man draw a breath, as if to say something. He doesn't.

Vader finds he has nothing to say to him, either. 

The inferno in his heart has ebbed away to smoldering coals. A cool, biting wind blows through his body, rippling to his fingertips. Calm, calculated precision is hardly his comfort area, but the constant presence of the Force is there to guide him, help him visualize what he needs to do. Closing his eyes, Vader dips his fingers into the cosmic ocean, taming the swirling currents with his bare hands, freezing the waters where they flow –

Barely have they stepped into the hallway when his captor jerks to a sudden halt, coughing out labored breaths. Vader can feel him shiver, struggling against the invisible force holding him in place, but the Sith apprentice clenches his fingers taut, tightening his grip and trapping him completely. Then, in one rapid motion, Vader throws himself sideways, just avoiding the suspended plasma as he hurtles into freedom. The momentum from the movement tosses him against the wall, effectively breaking his concentration even as he keeps his balance – 

Clambering to his feet, Vader catches a final glimpse of Obi-Wan Kenobi – utter astonishment plain on his face – before the Jedi Master springs into motion and makes a bolt for it. Vader is hot on his heel, racing along the endless hallway – until a dark voice rumbles out from behind, stopping him in his tracks. 

”Do not bother, Lord Vader.” 

Vader whirls around to see his Master standing at the beginning of the hallway. Adrenaline thrumming in his veins, he takes a minute to gather himself. Then he backtracks over to Sidious and kneels at his feet. 

”An admirable effort,” Sidious grants, a praise that is immediately negated by, ”We shall discuss your punishment later. Now rise, my apprentice. Work first… then play. ”

-

In a small maternity room at the Coruscant Medcenter, two sensible adults are winning a yelling contest over most birthing mothers _and_ their newborn children.

”You don't understand, we have no time for any of this –” Obi-Wan insists. ”We have to leave, _now!_” He is physically grabbing Padmé by the arm now, as though that might somehow help the logistics when there are two babies involved. In their crib, Luke and Leia are howling with distress, doubtless sensing the heated nature of the situation.

”I'm not leaving without Anakin!” Padmé cries in protest, tugging her arm free. ”I'm not moving until you tell me where he is!” 

Obi-Wan is helpless but to stare stupidly at her, wringing his hands about. How could he possibly begin to explain? Explain that any moment, Anakin could bust through the door, that by then, they need to be long gone and zooming through hyperspace? 

”Padmé, I need you to trust me,” he pleads on. ”You're in great danger – all of you.” He inclines his head at the screaming babies, an appeal that does seem to be having some effect on the new mother. 

And yet, she cannot let go. ”And Anakin?” she demands desperately. ”Is he in danger too?” 

Obi-Wan exhales in frustration. Every passing second is a wasted second -

Finally, he fixes her with a severe, deliberate look. On the night of the twins' birth, when the father of her children was gone and nowhere to be found, she came to him for help, for protection. And she extracted a promise from him – a promise that he would stay by her side and see her through this ordeal. 

He intends to honor that promise. 

”Alright,” the Jedi Master lies. ”I'll – I'll take you to where Anakin is. We'll – we'll rescue him together, alright? Find someone to take care of the babies when we get there.” 

”O-okay!” Padmé stutters, her eyes lighting up in equal parts of urgency and hopefulness. Finally jolting into action, she rushes to the crib to grab Leia, while Obi-Wan lifts Luke into his arms. ”You promise?” she asks, though amid the sudden bustle she forgets to wait for an answer. 

Obi-Wan cradles Luke against his chest as they abandon the hospital room, with nothing but the clothes on their backs and each a baby in their arms. ”One promise at a time,” the Jedi Master mutters under his breath. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably won't hugely play up the jealousy angle but it will come up again and when it does I hope it becomes clear why I felt I couldn't very well leave it out. the implication in this chapter is that by the time the duel begins, Palpatine has already filled Anakin's head with all kinds of anti-Jedi/Kenobi crap, but I don't know if that comes across too well. next chapter oughta clear some things up!


	5. Good Soldiers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah… I meant to update way, wayyy earlier, but life kept getting in the way. -smacks life-
> 
> a couple of things: 
> 
> 1\. Rex is still part of the GAR and never got his chip removed, for the simple reason that he's my favorite clone and also the one with the strongest relationship with Anakin, so I want to use him as a POV character in this story. chip buddies? ahahaha… 
> 
> 2\. so yes, the rating has gone up. I'm sorry for any inconvenience/disappointment this may cause. while the chapter below is still a pretty solid T, the upcoming Chapter 6 (an interlude of sorts) will kind of cross a certain line… so I'm just gonna rip off that bandaid now, yeah?
> 
> (a more specific content warning to accompany the chapter in question)

”We're not really going after Anakin, are we?”

The words occupy that hopeless space in between a statement and a question, bringing Obi-Wan to a sharp halt as he enters into the cockpit of Padmé's star skiff. The Senator leans forward in her seat, watching glassily through the window as the flashing blue of hyperspace washes over them. 

”Padmé…” Obi-Wan starts warily. It is with a similar strained caution that he moves to take a seat beside her. He peers at the makeshift crib erected from a compartment on the wall, its precious occupants snuffling peacefully once more. 

”So, you're…” Padmé flicks her hand in a speculative gesture, too spent now to summon either anger or concern. A crazed huff of laughter is the best she can manage. ”…kidnapping us, then?” 

The accusation earns a dry glance from the Jedi Master. Underneath them, the engine rumbles on. 

”Tell me the truth, Obi-Wan,” Padmé sighs. ”What's really going on? Where is Anakin? Where is my husband?” 

How many times has she asked this question within the last twelve hours? What could possibly be so bad that Obi-Wan has made an art form of avoiding it? Padmé feels her heart thumping wildly in her chest. She ponders which is worse, a comforting lie or an unforgiving truth. 

Could she still retract her inquiry, take a moment to weigh it over? She would still like the willing self-delusion, thank you very much, she would still like to be on the way to her husband's imminent rescue, if you please. 

Alas, that offer has expired. ”Truly… I do not know myself,” the Jedi Master murmurs in reply. ”But I think… Anakin believes… that I've betrayed him.”

”Betrayed him?” Padmé repeats, brow furrowing. ”Betrayed him… _how?_”

Obi-Wan shakes his head, ruffling his copper locks. ”I kidnapped you, didn't I?”

”Be serious.” 

”I am.” Then he says something that shakes Padmé to the core, makes her wish she could go back to the moment before and cover her ears. ”Padmé… Anakin has fallen to the dark side.” 

-

”Distressing news, this is.”

Mace Windu can hardly fault Grand Master Yoda for stating the obvious – _someone_ had to state it. Even with all the bantha shit Skywalker has pulled over the years, this is a lot to swallow at once. Married to Senator Amidala. Father of her newborn children. Sith apprentice to the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic. 

Needless to say, this is _not_ how Mace saw this drowsy afternoon going.

”Did Obi-Wan tell you where he's taking them?” Kit Fisto asks, leaning over the edges of his red seat. 

Mace shakes his head. ”To ensure the safety of both Amidala and her children, he thought it best not to. He suspects… the Sith might be looking to attack soon.” 

”Not if we attack first,” Agen Kolar points out, standing from his chair. ”Not if we attack now.” 

”Hm,” Master Yoda hums, ”Great danger, I sense in this plan.” 

_Great danger, in challenging the Sith. Who would have thunk,_ Mace grumbles internally, deciding he's had his fill of the obvious. The Jedi are taught never to question the Grand Master, but just this once, he has to agree with Kolar. ”Is there any alternative?” 

”The Chosen One has fallen,” Saesee Tiin rumbles. ”The Sith Master we've been searching for just had to be the most powerful man in the Republic. Knowing this, I shudder to think what could happen to our beloved Galaxy… if we let it.” 

Master Yoda appears to reconsider his stance, a wrinkly hand on his chin. After a time, he raises his wizened gaze and nods firmly. ”Question our Dark Lord, we should. For this task… our best duelists should we send.” 

-

Like moths to the flame. Really, the Jedi are making Sidious' job far too easy. Sending four of their best to their convenient deaths and clearing one more obstacle from the path of Darth Vader? Willingly branding themselves the criminals and traitors that the Galaxy shall soon know them as? Well, Sidious is not one to look a gift kaadu in the mouth. 

Turning away from the panorama window, the Sith Master clasps his hands together and takes a savoring breath to address his apprentice, who has been hovering at his side in obedient silence. 

He finds the boy's demeanor entirely changed – his gaze absent, teeth gritted, fists trembling at his sides. Sidious moves up closer when the boy suddenly jolts into life and bursts out, ”She's _gone!_” 

”…Lord Vader.”

The boy twists to face him, eyes ablaze with danger and despair. ”She's gone!” he screams, voice hoarse and broken. ”She's gone, they're _gone,_ he_ took_ them! _He took them away from me!_” 

Sidious sighs in mild frustration. Kenobi's so-perceived betrayal will be a goldmine to plunder later on, but right now he simply has no time to feed this particular beast. _But by all means, let that beautiful fury simmer, let that seething serpent throttle you breathless and twist around your very soul – so long as you unleash it upon the Jedi tonight. _

”And? You are a _Sith,_ you take them back. Now quit your mewling and pay heed to your Master's orders.”

And_ there_ is his docile little pet. ”…Orders, Master?” 

-

For three eventful years, Captain Rex has served in the Grand Army of the Republic. And he has done so with pride – pride in himself and his brothers and his General. But he is not dense – he knows that to the Republic, he is just another helmet and blaster, a mass-produced toy soldier, an expendable commodity. He is not degrading himself by acknowledging the fact. Only through knowing where he stands can he see what a long road yet lies ahead. 

There are those among his brothers who have chosen a different path, and Rex respects that choice. They are living, breathing proof that clones _are_ capable of choice, that they are so far more than pre-programmed machines, soulless pieces of Republic property. This knowledge has only served to harden the Captain's own resolve to stay – to complete the duty thrust upon his shoulders, however unfairly. He may not have asked to be tossed out of the sterile surveillance of a transparisteel tube into the hellish chaos of battle, to be bred for cannon fodder in a war in which he has no part – but damned if he will not make the most of what he's got. 

If to prove his worth he must first prove himself as a soldier, then so be it. If to earn his place in the Galaxy he must start by saving it, then that is just what he shall do. 

Out of_ spite,_ if nothing else. 

It isn't just for spite. He's doing it for his brothers. He wishes all the best for those who have followed their hearts and shed their armors and burdens – but Rex is a leader, with so many lives besides his own to consider and to protect. And he doubts a full-scale clone rebellion would exactly sway the public opinion in their favor. 

_Someday,_ he has told himself on many a starry night, whispered into many a dirty pillow. _The war will be over, and that… that is when the battle begins. _

Now that day is almost here, and the time for whispers is over. If the clones are ever to secure their civil rights, ever have a chance at a normal life, the time to act is now. A common sentiment among so many of his brothers is that they wouldn't even know where to start. Rex does. 

General Skywalker. 

Not only is the man a _marvel_ of a soldier and an exemplary military leader, the truly remarkable thing about General Skywalker is that he genuinely_ cares._ No clone is insignificant to him. How many times has he risked his life for a single trooper? Shielded his men with his own body? Mourned a fallen comrade? He is the Hero with No Fear, the Chosen One of the Jedi – a bona fide superstar. He has no obligation to give a damn. 

He gives all of the damns. Because before he is any of his flashy titles or decorations, he is Anakin Skywalker, and that is just who he is. 

To care is a good first step, but the General is also well-connected. While close friends with both Senator Amidala and Chancellor Palpatine (the latter has kind of been giving Rex the creeps ever since the whatever-happened-with-Fives, but that's beside the point), Skywalker is not any kind of social-climbing leech, and would never in a million years seek to use his connections for personal gain. But asking for their assistance in order to help someone else? Now that is a different story. Rex has no doubt in his mind that the General would be sympathetic to the clones' plight and more than happy to forward their cause to the legislators and all the way to the top. 

_Knowing the man,_ Rex muses with a silent chuckle, _watch him turn his whole thing into a fierce personal crusade and go on hunger-strikes and harass Senators and get himself arrested at least twice before the matter is settled. Never change, Skywalker. _

The 501st have just been informed that their General is rounding them up for a 'special mission' tonight. Rex is pleased – such a large-scale operation will no doubt take place off-planet, and it will likely be one of their last, if not _the_ last of their campaigns in the war. On the voyage there, Rex has decided, he will finally broach the subject. It could prove a difficult conversation, but Rex has faith in his General. _He will want to help us. Because that is just who he is. _

Rex stands to attention as a dark-cloaked figure emerges from the glimmering Coruscant night. The rest of the men follow his example, filling the murky military facility in neat blue-and-white rows. 

”Evening, General,” the Captain salutes, the usual style; hand flying up to just brush at his temple before dropping again. Not one for the niceties, their leader is often heard yelling 'at ease, at ease!' to his expectant battalion before he's even stepped into the room. 

Tonight, he is silent. Rex's brow furls in a frown. Somehow, the General seems… _different._ Dressed in a pitch black synth-leather ensemble, his face appears pale and gaunt and sunken in contrast, shoulders stiff and hunched, as though he's hiding in on himself. He spares a quick round of nods to some of the troopers in the front row – Fox, Jesse, Evert, Levi – but seems reluctant to speak. 

”General?” Rex prompts, leaning forward. ”Is everything al –” 

”Everything's _fine,_ Captain,” Skywalker cuts him off, tersely. Rex recoils in surprise – but then, he knows the General is prone to his share of mood-swings. 

”We're being sent on a mission?” 

Skywalker responds with the barest suggestion of a nod. ”I'm supposed to…” he fumbles. His gloves squeak as he balls his fists. ”I'm supposed to say the words…” 

Rex's eyes narrow to slits to regard his commanding officer in blatant confusion. 

”Execute Order 66.” 

Something _clicks_ within Rex. And just like that… his confusion is gone. The world clears. He knows what to do. Never has he known such clarity of understanding, such a single-minded firmness of purpose. His vision tunnels. His eyes focus. 

_Good soldiers follow orders._

_Good soldiers follow orders. _

_Good soldiers follow orders. _

_Good soldiers follow orders… _

-

As soon as the ramp makes contact with the surface of the unremarkable Expansion Region world of Derra IV, Padmé Amidala stomps right out of her ship and across a short distance on the grassy plain that greets her. She then whirls around to see her traveling companion standing in the hatchway. The bright light from the inside illuminates the infuriatingly calm expression on his bearded face. 

”Get out of my ship this instant!” she orders, lungs burning. A chilly wind blows through her travel gown._ ”Get. Out!”_

Obi-Wan holds up his hands in an apparent attempt at diplomacy. ”There's a small medical facility just over that ridge,” he gestures to the narrow hilltop painted deep green by the nocturnal darkness. ”Your security team should get here within the hour –”

”And once they do, I'll have them remove your lying rear end from my sight faster than you can say 'sham!'” 

”_Yes,_ I deceived you, but I did what I had to do to keep you and your children safe,” Obi-Wan argues, and before Padmé can get in a counter-protest, he yells over her, ”And I never lied to you about Anakin. Believe me, I wish I had!” 

”You gave up on him!” she bellows, throwing her arms out. ”He wouldn't just turn on his best friend without reason! He's being _threatened,_ coerced, or… under_ duress,_ or something! And you just left him there, in the hands of that_ monster!_” 

”And would it have been better if I'd left _you_ in those hands?” Obi-Wan points out, taking a few steps down the ramp. ”To be taken hostage? To add to whatever 'duress' your husband is under?” 

”You don't even believe me,” Padmé observes with a huff of incredulous laughter. ”You just left him there… for your self-righteous Jedi friends to dispose –” 

Her accusation is cut short when without warning, Obi-Wan's step falters on the ramp and he sinks to his knees with a strangled cry. 

”Obi-Wan?” Padmé gasps, torn between persistent anger and sudden concern. Compassion soon wins out, and she rushes over to him. The Jedi Master is gripping the front of his tunic with a shaky hand, panting, sweating. ”Are you alright? What happened?”

She tries to help him to his feet – the new mother is still wobbly herself from the recent exertion on her body, but able to provide a measure of support – when a piercing shriek tears forth from the cockpit. Two separate shrieks, to be precise – and while one might think Padmé would be all-too-familiar with the sound by now, never once during her fledgling motherhood has she heard the twins cry quite like this. 

”Luke, Leia?” she panics, abandoning Obi-Wan on the ramp. She is relieved to find the babies technically safe, squirming and screeching in their makeshift crib – but they just sound in so much _pain,_ and_ kriff_ if that isn't the most horrible thing she has ever heard in her life. 

”Sh-sh-sh,” Padmé hushes the infants, collecting them in her arms, one on each. She doesn't understand – they look fine, they smell fine, she just fed them and cleaned them before they landed. Alarmed, she seeks Obi-Wan's eyes as she hears him approach – only to find them glossy from a thin layer of tears. 

”What's going on?” she demands, rocking the crying babies in what she hopes are soothing motions. ”Please, say that it isn't…” She thought she was all cried out by this point, but there is that icky, stinging sensation again, searing through her eyes. ”Please tell me that Anakin is –” 

Obi-Wan heaves a shuddering breath. "Anakin is fine. I think." A certain venom seeps into his voice. "Not sure about those self-righteous friends of mine." 


	6. A Lesson in Humiliation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, not so much a full chapter as something of an interlude before we close one part of the story and get started with the next. but like… noooot exactly one of those nice, breezy interludes. 
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: BLOOD/SELF-HARM/HUMILIATION/TORTURE that could potentially also come across as sexual in nature… WITHOUT being actually so, or at least NECESSARILY so. like there's a certain subtext that was pretty much unavoidable, but really, it's humiliation and torture that's about the humiliation and torture. in any case, it's kind of disturbing, but more sad and angsty than anything, I guess.

Scattered on the floor lie remnants of a bygone age. Far below on the streets, a crimson splatter adorns the pavement. Four men once so revered, hardly deserving of their quick and easy deaths, hardly even worth what pitifully little time it took Sidious to run them through and expose them as the posers and hypocrites they are. 

Even for the dark lord himself, the sheer magnitude of his victory is difficult to comprehend. In a single night of triumph, history has been written anew. Thousands of years of legacy wiped from existence. Death has purged the halls of a beloved home, flames torn down the walls of the infallible fortress. Towers of smoke reach for the skies as their stone counterparts burn to the ground.

The unwitting enemy of the Clone Wars is defeated. A new age dawns. The dark side reigns supreme once more. 

”You have done well, Lord Vader.” Sidious takes in the ghostlike figure kneeling before him. Inky robes coated with dried blood, haggard face sheened with sweat, stray curls stuck to his forehead. ”Truly… you deserve a reward.” 

Vader looks up at him expectantly without rising from his kneeling position. Sidious is well aware that the only reward that his apprentice desires is the permission to jump on the fastest ship within a two-klick radius and track down his wife and spawn. And that is what he shall receive – as soon as it fits into his Master's plans. 

”However… I seem to recall you have also earned yourself… _a punishment_.”

Vader swallows, bitterness and fear forced down his throat all at once. ”For failing to kill Kenobi,” he acknowledges raspily, and nods. ”Do with me as you wish, Master.” 

A grin stretches Sidious' mouth as a rather amusing idea hits him. _He will not be able to defy a direct order from you under any circumstances. _

_Why,_ the Sith Master muses as he remembers Dr. Se's marketing spiel, _I expect my recent purchase could still benefit from a few more… test runs. _

The swift kick to the jaw takes his apprentice by complete surprise, knocking him back onto the carpet. He rolls to his belly, groaning. A trail of crimson trickles down from his mouth as he scrabbles to his elbows and looks up at his assailant. 

”A Master does not take orders from a servant,” Sidious barks, ”but just this once… I think I will gladly oblige.” 

Vader just looks at him blearily, blood dribbling off his chin. 

”Stand up,” Sidious orders. The boy gets woozily to his feet, tunics fluttering. ”Strip.” 

Vader stares at him from under his sweaty curls, stumped. To be fair to Kamino's scientists, Sidious doubts he can blame the boy's lack of understanding on the chip's limitations. ”Go on. Remove your clothes.” 

The boy holds Sidious' gaze as he goes about fulfilling the command, pulling off his boots and tossing them to the floor beside the carnage. Sidious indulges in a menacing smirk. He has no intention of touching the boy intimately, as he has little interest in such pursuits in general. Subjugating one's apprentice through those methods is not unheard of in the history of the Sith – but for Sidious, it is little more than an elaborate waste of his valuable time. 

Still, he relishes watching the boy squirm under his gaze as he pulls his tunics over his head, revealing a toned, scar-littered chest. It's a strange mirror of their first post-operative meeting in this very office, when the boy had materialized wearing nothing but a hospital gown and very little shame. At that time, Sidious had been happy to let him get changed in peace, to shed his liminal cocoon and slip into his new Sith skin. But a Master has to establish their authority, and to that end shame is the perfect tool. He watches in pleasant anticipation until the last of sliver of fabric has been discarded on the floor, and Vader stands naked before him. 

-

The temple massacre has drained Vader of any fight he might have had in him, or at least kept him from having to face that there wouldn't have been a fight to begin with. Whatever is going to happen is going to happen, so he might as well save time and comply. He sold his soul to the devil tonight, and no amount of symbolic resistance is ever going to buy it back.

”Get back on your knees.”

Silently, Vader obeys, long bare limbs bending over and scraping against the carpet. He is distantly aware of the cold flooding in from the shattered window, sending shivers through his exposed body and seeping into his very bones.

”Crawl over to me,” his Master says. ”On your stomach.” 

Stretching his legs out, Vader drops to his stomach and crawls. Even with his eyes cast down, he can imagine Sidious' lips quirk up in satisfaction as he watches the boy put one elbow in front of the other. His bare skin rubs against the itchy texture of the carpet as he drags himself along. He cannot help a slight tensing of his muscles when he reaches his familiar place within inches of Sidious' feet. 

”Bow your head.” Vader dips his head from its already low-hanging position. ”Lower.” He keeps going until he can practically taste the entire bacterial flora of the Senate. A faint, unmeaning noise escapes his mouth as he lies prostrate on the carpet. Flashes of blues and greens flicker through his head. 

He can feel the tip of a boot lightly prod at his forehead, tilting it up – and the next thing he knows is flying headlong across the room. The Force behind the kick has him thumping violently against the far wall, before landing on a hard, uneven surface. 

Climbing to his elbows, Vader tries to shake off his hazed vision. A black smudge is eyeing him from the other side of the room. Then he realizes what he's lying on top of, and starts to vehemently scramble away – 

”Did I give you permission to move?” 

Vader freezes. The center of his face feels numb and bent out of shape. Rivulets of blood stream down his chin, raining sticky droplets on Master Fisto's cold forehead. He attempts to suppress a grimace, an endeavor made that much more painful by his crushed features. 

Sidious licks his lips, stalking closer, ”Tell me, Lord Vader, are you always this _squeamish_ around bodies? Did you cower from the Jedi that fell at your feet tonight? Flinch at every drop of blood you spilled?” 

”…No, Master.” 

”Then, you remained calm?” The boy's eyes rake over the ruined carpeting. Distant screams pierce through his head. The Sith Master pushes on, ”Or perhaps… you took _pleasure_ in it?” 

”Yes,” the boy blurts out, clutching desperately to the idea. Yes, he _wanted_ this. He wanted them all dead. ”Yes… I took pleasure in it.” 

”Stand up.”

Bits and pieces of Jedi Masters topple about as Vader clambers up from the mangled pile. He bites back a wince as he does, hand dropping from his face to hold his side. 

”Yes, what?” Sidious demands. 

”Yes… _Master._”

”Walk over to the window.”

Vader hobbles forward, but Sidious clarifies, ”Hands at your sides.” The young man straightens his back and lets both arms fall to his sides. He tries very hard to muster some measure of dignity, even while naked and dead on his feet. 

Innocent eyes look up at him from the shattered transparisteel when he reaches the window. His vision has returned to normal, but the city is still a mere blur to his eyes, a glossy haze that doesn't seem quite real. He's not entirely sure there ever was a Jedi Temple or any life he shared with the Jedi, or anything at all beyond the confines of this room. The overwhelming cold is the only thing he cannot deny, making his teeth chatter and hairs stand on end. 

His Master gestures to the puddle of splinters at his feet. ”Pick up a shard.” For a second Vader is confused by the request, before remembering that it is not a request and that his confusion is the last thing that matters. He bends down and plucks one of the crystalline fragments in his hand. 

”Write that across your chest.” 

Vader stares blankly, not understanding. Sidious seems to regard him with simultaneous annoyance and amusement. ”In case you ever lose the ability to speak,” he elaborates. Then it dawns on the Sith apprentice. 

”…Yes, Master.” 

He places the very sharpest corner of the shard against his chest, just above his right nipple. His torso is already streaked with dried blood from his nose. A raw, searing sensation flares across his chest as he engraves the aurebesh letters into his flesh, one by one. The rough edge of the transparisteel scrapes uncomfortably against his skin, making his fingers slip and creating stray cuts on all sides of the large, circular shapes. Warm blood wells up from the wounds, flowing freely down his chest and along his thighs to his feet. 

He tries to picture his family – Padmé, and his newborn children – but he can't. They exist on another plane, far away from here, far away from this strange, nude creature carving his flesh in the dead of night. They're not here. They're not anywhere. 

Vader cannot explain the tears that have dampened his cheeks when he lifts the shard from his skin, mixing with the ruby fluids that continue to run down his body. It's not that he feels nothing – he's exhausted and bruised and bloodied all over – it's that he doesn't _particularly_ feel anything. 

He rolls back his shoulders to present the oath slashed across his chest to his Master. Through the mist of his drying tears, he sees the dark lord smiling. But the approval is quick to vanish from his face when Sidious grimly tells his apprentice, ”Lie down at my feet.”

Vader bows his head. He has no reason to expect anything other than a repeat of the previous treatments. And he has no excuse to respond with anything other than, ”Yes, Master.” 


	7. Ever After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nope, not the last chapter. it's sort of a cruelly ironic title for a chapter that's… not completely awful content-wise?

Anakin rarely did manage to sneak up on his mother, who'd always been able to sense his presence from seemingly klicks away. But while Shmi had anticipated his entrance into the hovel, the loud _bang-clack!_ that greeted her next did come as a surprise. She jumped in her seat, dropping her sewing. Her son whipped right past her in a huff, a pile of bent metal and machinery abandoned in his wake. 

”Ani?” she called after him before he could retire into his workroom. When he still didn't stop, she resorted to extreme measures, ”Anakin Skywalker!”

That froze him in his tracks. He turned to face her slowly and deliberately, lips stretched tight and shoulders tensed. Rather than say anything in response, he simply tilted his head quizzically.

”In this house, we talk about things. Remember?” Shmi reminded her son, beckoning him over to sit next to her. With exaggerated reluctance, the boy complied, slumping into the seat and making dirt and sand fly as he did. His cheeks burned angry red underneath the oily smears on his face. 

Shmi cast a meaningful glance to the ditched pile of junk, before turning her chair about so that she was facing her son. She then leaned forward and asked him, ”Should I be glad you're no longer competing in that awful and dangerous race, or upset that you're destroying your amazing handiwork?”

Anakin raised his gaze confrontationally and scowled at her from under his brows. ”Neither,” he muttered, and his voice rose a few pitches when he elaborated, ”because neither of those sentences is true.”

Shmi raised her eyebrows, taking another look at the trashed heap of metal. ”But isn't that… the 'totally radical and wizard engine' that you were especially building –”

”Obviously,” Anakin cut in. ”Watto didn't believe in me and destroyed it and is making me compete with that old, piece-of-poodoo GE-6.” He gave a flippant wave of the hand. ”Happy?”

Shmi blinked, taking a moment to digest this highly layered information. ”No… not happy,” she confessed, leaning in closer to her son. ”Call me crazy, but I'm guessing you aren't, either.”

Anakin huffed and puffed through his nostrils. ”It's like he doesn't even want me to win,” he declared. ”One minute he's going on about how I'm a whizz-kid and a genius and his prized racer – and then he just – does he really, _genuinely_ think he knows more about machines than I do? I mean,_ really?_”

”Sh-sh,” Shmi hushed him. Their slave master wasn't known for frequenting the home of the mother and son while they were having one of their all-too brief breaks, but one could never be too careful. Especially when being careful could spare her son from a beating. 

She gave some further thought to the issue at hand. Obviously, her son participated in those terrible races because Watto made him, because Watto thought the 'whizz-kid' might earn him a bundle someday. Obviously, Anakin competed because he didn't have a choice. But she also knew that not only did the boy actually enjoy the sweet rapture of a high-speed race, he was also well aware of his own talent, on and off track. And it wasn't so inconceivable that he actually wanted the win more than his owner did. 

After all, if he were to win a high-profile race, with a self-constructed engine no less, he might not get the prize money, but he would get a lot of attention. And maybe, just maybe… some rich free spirit visiting from the Core Worlds might notice him, buy his freedom, hire him as a mechanic or a pilot, and invite him along on their thrilling adventures – 

Yes, the mother and son both knew it was a pipe dream – but in this life, it was nice to at least have dreams. And they both also knew that the host of those dreams, the heart and soul of Anakin Skywalker, could never be contained by the speck of dust known as Tatooine. 

One way or another, he was getting out of here. Someday. Someday soon.

”Anakin…” Shmi held his gaze tight. Even as his mother, she really had no possible way of knowing exactly what he wanted to hear. Just as she had no possible way of stopping him from racing, or stopping Watto from destroying his creations, for that matter. But that didn't mean she was helpless. She was his mother. ”He may own your body… he may own the clothes on your back… but he will never have your _mind._ The beautiful mind that designed that engine –” She reached out and gently tapped the top of his head with her fingertip. ”That's still yours. That's all you.”

”But –” Anakin started to protest, motioning wildly in the general direction of the ruined engine. ”Did you even listen? He –”

”Yes, he destroyed it,” Shmi acknowledged with regret. ”And yes, he's going to make you compete with an inferior engine, and have you build a thousand more inferior things just like it. But does that mean you _didn't_ build something better first? Because he destroyed your creation, does that suddenly mean that it wasn't the fastest, most top-notch engine that Tatooine has ever seen?”

”Well – _no,_ but –”

Shmi gave her son some room to argue, but apart from some vaguely indignant sounds, nothing much came out of his mouth. She again reached out with her hand, this time letting it rest atop her son's head. ”But it's useless now. I know. I understand.”

Silence stretched between them for a while, Anakin pretending mind the motherly hand stroking his hair while making no move to remove it, Shmi making exaggerated but gentle movements in an attempt to lighten the mood. Then, after a time, she prodded, ”You know what else would render it useless?”

Anakin frowned dubiously. ”What?” 

”If you were to build an even better, faster engine.”

”Impossible."

”Impossible?” Shmi echoed, brows raised. ”In other words, you _peaked_ at the grand old age of eight? You really think that say, a year from now, you won't be at least a _little_ _bit_ better at what you do?”

Anakin flushed beet red, ”No! No…. I never said that!” 

He drew a breath for further protest, quickly rendered moot when Shmi once again extended a playful finger and tapped him on the head. ”It's all in here.” She slid her hand lower until it pressed flush against his heartbeat. ”And in here.” Their eyes met in an earnest look. ”These are the things Watto can never take for his own. Never.” 

The sullen scarlet persisted on Anakins cheeks for yet another while, but then, the sweet-tempered boy had never been one to keep sulking just to prove a point. After a moment, he gave a small sideways nod and murmured, ”Yeah, you're right, Mom. You always are.”

Her hand flied up to ruffle his hair again. ”You know, you could still wait a_ few_ more years before building the fastest engine _ever_.” She softened the proposal with a smile. ”For my sake.”

On that, her son made no promises, but the light was back on his face and determination once again shone in his eyes. He crossed the room to pick up the pile of scrap, holding it tight against his small chest. ”You're – you're coming to watch me race, right? I mean, I probably won't win – _again_ – because… you know, but…”

He trailed off when Shmi shook her head. ”Watto hopes to attract 'VIP clients' at the event, and he's having me thoroughly tidy up the shop.” At that, Anakin's face turned sour again. But Shmi just smiled, like she did at so many things that brought her little joy. Rising from the chair, she put her hands on her hips, affectionately stern. ”Can you promise me not to hurt yourself?”

Anakin was already at the door, stumbling from the overload of metal on his person. ”Seriously, Mom? With a GE-6? I couldn't if I wanted to.” 

-

Every day, Padmé Amidala counts her blessings. They are certainly manifold – but on most days, she only needs two fingers on her hand. Two fingers for two of the most incredible, wonderful children she has the boundless joy and privilege to call her own. 

The brother and sister could not be more different from one another. Leia is loud, strong-willed and fearless. She knows what she wants and goes after it with a single-minded, unrelenting determination. When her brother beat her to walking, she spent exactly two minutes acting jealous and what felt like the next twelve hours systematically unraveling the mystery known as legs. She went on to beat her brother to both running and talking. Her first complete sentence was, ”No Luke, not like that.” 

Luke is sweet, even-tempered and diplomatic. At such a tender age, he already seems to have a rich inner world of his own, tending to get lost in his daydreams. But the little dreamer is a doer as well, who often does first – headfirst – and thinks next. One would assume Leia to be the one with the reckless streak, but somehow it is always Luke's tiny knees that get scraped and Luke who stumbles upon hornets' nests and unconventional solutions to problems. 

”Whoop!” the young mother exclaims when the blonde boy slams into her full force, half-falling in her arms. ”You want another hug? Ah, no, of course you want my headdress.” She gently keeps his hand back from the delicate set of pearl and fabric adorning her curls. ”Luke, I told you, it's Mommy's. Mommy made it all by herself and is very fond of it. Besides, it would fall off your head – _uff!_” 

She had, of course, seen Leia running to them, aiming straight at the side of her not occupied by her brother, but somehow the sheer _strength_ of the two-year-old never fails to surprise Padmé. 

”You two are getting big,” she informs two of the tiniest beings she had ever set her eyes upon. ”Or Mommy's getting wimpy. Could be both.” 

The little family has settled into their life on Derra IV fairly well – as well as can be expected under the circumstances. It is not Naboo, but the three of them have been blessed enough to find residence in a peaceful port town far from the horrors plaguing some other parts of the Galaxy. Padmé earns a fair wage as a teacher at the local community college. 

At least, Tsabin Neta-Lee does. The former Queen and Senator never went as far as to fake her own death, but in her heart she knows that Padmé Amidala Naberrie is gone. 

Yes – she wouldn't perhaps be counting her blessings quite so diligently had she also not lost a great deal. The Galaxy has lost a great deal. Their protectors. Their Republic. Their freedom and their peace. Things they took for granted – and some things, she now realizes, they never really had. The Empire has cast a great black shadow over their homes and lives. People are being massacred. Enslaved. Oppressed and extorted. Star systems are being forced to cooperate or face destruction. 

And the one leading those charges is the one whose loss hurts the most. The Emperor's right hand, Darth Vader. The fearsome Sith Lord formerly known as Anakin Skywalker, her husband. 

Padmé didn't want to believe it, at first. When the news reached Derra on that fateful night, of the Jedi's extermination and the Empire's founding, and the part that her husband supposedly played in those enormities, she refused to believe it. ”Not Anakin,” she had insisted, over and over. ”He couldn't.” 

Obi-Wan, Moteé and Captain Typho all had to band together to physically restrain her from going after her husband. They confined her to a medroom. ”Please Senator, think of your children,” they implored. But she _was _thinking of them. They needed their father. _She_ needed him. 

Further proof and witness accounts just kept on piling. She still didn't believe it. 

Then, one day, they took Luke and Leia into another room while they showed her a holo. The contents of which were simultaneously forever burned into her brain and wiped clean from her memory. 

She almost lost herself. She shut down completely. She wanted to die. She wished she had the strength to die. 

Days passed, maybe weeks – a period of which she doesn't remember much beyond staring ahead and clinging to a vague image in her head. An image of the four of them together, on Naboo. She doesn't quite recall whether they were laughing, or playing, or having a family picnic. What mattered was that the image was_ perfect._ It was everything she'd ever wanted. 

It was her reward for weathering through this war. For persevering, for having fought so damn hard. For all those years of hiding. For all those years she had lived for others and never for herself. All those years she had given and given and never asked for a darned thing in return. It was her happy ending. 

And it was Anakin's, too. And Padmé, for one, couldn't think of a single reason why he should have suddenly changed his mind and decided to start serving an evil dictator, instead. Abandoned his family in favor of participating in atrocities beyond human imagination. 

It wasn't true. It wasn't true. 

They just didn't understand. Anakin needed her, and she needed him – 

”Knock, knock,” someone came tapping at her door one evening. It was Obi-Wan, both knocking and describing the action, to double his chances of being heard over the loud bawling. 

He came in at her assent, carrying in his arms a very distressed pair of twins. 

”They're fed, and clean… and they slept throughout the afternoon,” he reported through the ear-piercing cries, rocking the babies up and down. ”But we can't get them to calm down now. I even tried the Force –” At that, Padmé's head snapped up. ”In the safest, gentlest way possible,” the Jedi Master promised. The expression on his face was also gentle. 

Padmé had looked away. Obi-Wan had walked over to her bedside. Then, after a while, he had said her name once. It struck her that his voice had been barely above a whisper, and she could still hear him perfectly well. The twins had stopped crying. 

And when Obi-Wan had leaned over to carefully deposit them in her arms, they had fallen asleep. 

And so, little by little, Padmé had found the strength to live. Live for her children. Live for not a perfect happily-ever-after, but for the hope of just a little better tomorrow. 

Now, that tomorrow is here, with many more to come. 

”What's that in your hand, Leia?” Padmé asks the brunette girl before 'that' ends up in her mouth. ”Ah… not another crushed beetle,” she observes, taking Leia's hand to free the ill-fated creature finger by finger. Then, unthinkingly, she adds, ”You know, your father used to –” 

The hand not working on the beetle flies up to her mouth. She freezes. 

It still hasn't sunk in. She speaks of him as though he's dead. As though he's some heroic model father taken from them too soon, whom she _wants_ them to asks questions about. 

”Faata,” Luke mimics her, because of course she overpronounced the word. 

”I –” Padmé stands up from the ground and takes either child's hand in hers. She gestures to their houseboat about a stone's throw away. ”Well, I think you little dears might be getting hungry. Come on, let's go see if Moteé added any extra crunch to yesterday's leftovers.” 

”Lunch,” says Leia. 

”Crunch,” her mother corrects, laughing. ”I mean… lunch, too. I mean, _dinner_.” 

”Lunch,” says Luke. 

-

Vader used to not want to dream of her, because it pained him so. Now that he feels nothing, he still wishes those dreams would go away. They're an unnecessary reminder of a life someone else lived. He has no need for reminders of people and things long lost. Shmi Skywalker is gone, therefore she should be forgotten. 

He would much rather dream of Padmé. It pains him… _oh,_ how it pains him… but at least she is still alive in this world. She and his children, they're out there somewhere. They represent something that could still be regained. They're his. They belong to him. His family belongs to him.

Someday soon, his Master will let him go find them. 

He can feel the day approaching. 

Then… they'll be together. 

His Master will show them the way. 


	8. The Loyalist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heaps of angst, a bit of plot and maybe maybe some hope on the horizon?

He's doing it for his brothers.

It used to be a principle, a philosophy Rex lived by. Now, it's a half-crazed mantra he sometimes mumbles under his breath. 

And what he used to be doing was fight for the Republic, for peace and justice in the Galaxy. What he does now is spend his days undoing all that hard work, upholding every conceivable injustice and establishing new ones. 

He's had blood on his hands before. Perhaps that is why the transition from the Republic to the Empire has not seemed quite so stark or glaring in his eyes. The two regimes even share the same leader. The difference is that before, Rex at least had some peace of conscience to hold on to, a comforting illusion of fighting the good fight, for the good guys. For his brothers. 

Now, his eyes have been opened, to his blindness before, and to the present evils plain to see. War is hell, and it always was. On one side or the other, serving this regime or that, he continues to bring naught but misery upon an already miserable world. And in his position, as the Captain of the Special Attack Battalion better known was 'Vader's Fist', serving directly under one of the most feared beings in the Galaxy, he's not doing it subtly, either.

So why did he stay? There are many reasons, each as uninspiring as the last. Resignation. Routine. Familiarity. Rex used to answer to a youthful face in dark attire and armor, now he answers to a slightly more sunken face in dark attire and armor. He used to fly and fight and fire at an impersonal enemy. He still flies and fights and fires at an impersonal enemy. And so do millions upon millions of men like him, men that Rex once vowed to save. 

They're all stuck in that same, collective state of numbness. Most of them have given up, accepted their lot, accepted that this is how they will live and die. The ones that could not have already left their ranks, Rex figures, made their choice while they could. 

Rex used to think he had made a choice, too, a choice just as respectable and valid. Now, he has seriously come to doubt his ability to choose. It has taken some time for that suspicion to congeal into solid thought. Two years, two costly years. 

Two years since that night, that traumatic night – the night he's been struggling to fathom ever since. 

But now that hard stone of numbness has finally broken in cracks, left fissures open for reflection. After two years, Rex thinks he's finally found the answer. An answer that he has carried with him all along. 

_”The evidence is in here. It's—it's in here. It's in all of us, every clone.” _

_”What is it?”_

_”Organic chips built into our genetic code to make us do whatever someone wants, even kill the Jedi. It's all in here.”_

Fives was right. Over and over, his friend's dying words play in Rex's head. He was not confused, or doped up, or crazy. They were wrong not to take him at his word. Rex was wrong to repress it all away, bury his comrade's words of warning in his own grief. They all failed Fives. They all failed Tup. 

Rex knows now, without a shadow of a doubt, that this is the truth. He realizes now, that had he _chosen_ to murder thousands of Jedi that night – thousands of his former brothers-in-arms and trusted companions – he, too could have accepted this life, accepted servitude. But he did not. 

None of them did. They were programmed to obey, like a bunch of battle droids. And it makes only too much sense. 

Rex has not dared to confide in any of his brothers. He no longer knows who to trust, even among his own flesh and blood. Most of his fellow soldiers are merely walking in a trance, jaded and desensitized by their trauma, but a good portion of them, Rex suspects, have already been indoctrinated into complete loyalty to the Empire. No doubt the chips have aided in that process. He almost fell into that same dark abyss, so it isn't as if he has anything but the deepest sympathy and compassion for them. But it is still too much of a risk, and the information he holds too precious. What he needs now is a tried and true friend. Someone he can count on. 

Once upon a time, he would have thought of General Skywalker. 

Hero of the Clone Wars, Chosen One of the Jedi. 

Now, traitor to the Order and hunter of the remnants. 

_”He's in on it, I don't know to what extent, but I know he orchestrated much of this.” _

_”You've gone too far, Fives. The Chancellor isn't capable of what you claim.” _

His brothers are not the only ones whose loyalties Rex has been forced to question. If there is anyone whose character he's needed to re-examine of late, it is General Skywalker. If Palpatine was behind this all along, it is not so inconceivable that Skywalker was always in on it, as well. The two were always close, after all. The thought is both outrageous and perfectly rational. Rex really isn't sure what else could have prompted Skywalker's defection, in such an abrupt, brutal fashion. He knew the General was troubled, and he had heard before of Jedi losing their way and falling to the dark side of the Force. 

But then, Rex isn't sure he really cares about the distinction, or the details. After two years of doing Palpatine and Vader's bidding, their twisted, ruthless bidding; it has become increasingly easy to lump the pair of them together. They did this, the two of them in collaboration.

As far as finding an ally of his own is concerned, the clone captain is still stuck at square one. He thinks of escaping tonight.

But then, he hears of their next mission. 

-

For a long time, Obi-Wan Kenobi felt nothing. He had two choices, really; to feel nothing or to get crushed under what he _was_ feeling. And so, he stifled the sorrow away.

The beginning was easy – well, easier. He had a distraction; something, or rather two some_bodies,_ to keep him busy. While Padmé still recovered from the shock, Obi-Wan, along with the Senator's security team, helped to take care of her infant children. It was during this period of his life that he realized, changing the twins' diapers and wiping milk off their little chins and humming them to sleep every night – that he felt more useful and needed than he had in a long time. He felt more of a protector and a hero than he had for the entire duration of the war. 

But all good things must come to an end, to give way to better things, if nothing else. Eventually, the Senator began to feel like herself again, and though it was little by little at first, she persisted on that road. It was on the day that Obi-Wan saw the young mother return her son's sunny smile that the Jedi Master knew he'd done his part, and it was time for him to exit their lives. 

At first, Padmé could not understand why. 

”Obi-Wan, please,” she had said. ”I've already lost my husband and I almost lost myself. I cannot lose you, too.”

”'Lose' is such a dramatic word,” he had responded with a wry smile. ”But I fear I don't have a choice, Padmé. As one of the surviving Jedi, I'm an outlaw and a fugitive, and therefore an enormous risk to your family's safety. And besides that –” His words hit an abrupt stop as he felt a painful tightness grip at his chest. Drawing a fresh breath, he went on, ”Padmé, you must leave this place as well.” 

Padmé sighed, letting her eyes roam around the peaceful, summery bank overlooking the Temmer, one of Derra IV's many rivers. In the shallow water, two small Nautolan boys were playing, running in circles while laughing and splashing at each other. Their mother sat on the shore, supervising the activities. Seeing Padmé looking their way, she gave a friendly wave of the hand. 

”I know the locals have been… immensely generous,” Obi-Wan granted, guessing his friend's thoughts. ”And it warms my heart to know there are still places like this – bubbles of relative normalcy – in this unforgiving Galaxy.” His gaze was drawn to the skies above. ”But that Galaxy is out there, Padmé. And if the Empire ever does find me, I do not wish to be privy to your family's location. I have seen enough of the dark side to know that – that there _are_ ways –”

Their heads were turned to the shore again when a great_ swash _interrupted the Jedi's warning. The Nautolan mother had jumped into the water herself, to the absolute delight of her sons. 

”Padmé,” Obi-Wan had to call her name a couple of times before her attention snapped back to him, transfixed by the cheerful bustle by the river. ”You – you cannot settle here. I hope I have your word on this.” 

He'd stared her down long enough to drill holes into her beautiful face. After a while, the young woman had nodded dutifully. Her eyes, however, were still clouded in thought. ”Specifically,” she began tentatively. ”You're thinking of a scenario where…_ Anakin_ …”

”Vader,” Obi-Wan corrected her. 

”Vader,” she echoed. Clamping her lips shut, she seemed to abandon her initial prompt. Instead, she nodded again, with a new briskness. ”I understand. We'll relocate.”

”Thank you.” 

The quiet reflection had still not vanished from her gaze. ”What were you going to say a moment ago?” she asked, lifting her eyes to meet his. ”'Besides that'… what? Besides being a fugitive, you can't stay because…?” 

Obi-Wan sighed, looking away. Still, after a moment of gathering his thoughts, he voiced them honestly, ”Regardless of what he became… I still love and respect Anakin far too much… to ever dream of stealing his family from him.” 

With that, he had nodded his goodbye, turned on his heel and set off on the path to self-imposed solitude. 

He had found that solitude on the planet of Colstev, the sister planet to his birthplace of Stewjon, in the Stewjon system. In his choice of a hiding place, he had employed the same double reverse psychology as he had in initially bringing Padmé and the twins to an Expansion Region world – close, but not too close. Stewjon would be on top of the list of the places the Empire would search, but would they really look deep into Colstev's rocky caves? 

Although, in a place yet soft in his rapidly hardening heart, he has to admit that his reasons were not purely strategic. Every night, he takes a brief stroll from behind the walls of Nekka to the austere wastelands surrounding the settlement. When he looks up above, he is most often met with a gray sheet of clouds. On some nights, however, the shroud clears to reveal the spherical form of his very first home. On those nights, he spends hours just gazing wistfully to the skies, admiring the faint shimmer of the planet's surface, until sleep reaches his eyes. After a month of doing this, Obi-Wan realized he could not stop. After losing two families he had known, he could not help but seek a connection to one he had not. 

His days, he spends in meditation and by aiding the locals with everyday tasks. He goes by just 'Ben'. He refuses to touch money, having settled in an abandoned hovel and obtaining the daily necessities by means of farming and trading, both well-established practices in the unassuming community. He treats everyone he meets with kindness and often acts as a mediator in disputes, but at the same time, he steers clear of friendship and intimacy. 

Only once, he let sentiment get the better of himself and took off to Coruscant on a whim. He thought he needed to see the burned-down Jedi Temple at least once. He had not expected to find his hallowed home of more than thirty years in the process of being rebuilt and remodeled into the Imperial Palace. He had wanted to leave immediately, cursing whatever unfathomable impulse had overtaken him. 

But then, by some caprice of the Force, he'd run into Bail Organa. It had taken some begging from the normally controlled politician, but Obi-Wan had agreed to accompany the Senator to his homeworld of Alderaan, and let him wine and dine him for the night. For the entire evening, the tragic fate of the Jedi Order was not discussed once, though Organa did wryly joke that if there was a secret society of surviving Jedi out there somewhere, they were welcome to come knocking on his door anytime. 

On the morrow, his words of reassurance took on a new meaning when the true reason for his hospitality manifested itself. Organa had scarcely bid his guest good morning when he had then proceeded to invite him to meet with a secret delegation of politicians formed from the old Loyalist Committee. Originally created as an advisory body to Chancellor Palpatine, they had held on to that name, persistently loyal to the Republic and the old form of government even after its abolition.

He'd gotten as far as 'there's been talks of a full-scale rebellion' when Obi-Wan had stopped him then and there, and assured Organa that his involvement would be an absolute death blow to any nascent resistance movement. And that is when the rest of the Loyalist Committee – Senators Chuchi, Darsana, Dio, Mothma, Paddie and Zar – had walked into the marbled room. 

Organa had apologized for the lack of caution on his part and misjudgment of the situation, and proceeded to profusely vouch for each of his colleagues' characters. Even as Obi-Wan was struck with the depth of his own incaution, he had decided that the best thing to do would be to stay in the room and hear them out. They'd ended up having a long, weighty discussion on the prospect of an active resistance movement and how to go about such a daunting venture. The session had ended much the way it had started, with the self-dubbed Loyalists begging Obi-Wan to reconsider and join their cause, and the former Jedi in turn assuring them that while his sympathies were with them, his involvement was a risk the hopeful rebels could not afford to take. 

Before the committee had dispersed, Organa had sworn them all to secrecy. Obi-Wan had stood there, quietly reflecting on the vows he had taken as a Jedi - a noble protector of the Galaxy and keeper of the peace. When the time came for the old friends to part ways, his heart relented. He'd eventually left Organa with ciphered instructions on how to contact him if things ever got desperate. Organa had expressed his eternal gratitude and wished Obi-Wan a safe journey home, wherever that was. 

Now, a full year has passed since that day, and Obi-Wan still has not heard back from Organa. He takes this to mean that all is not lost, not yet. 

He does not dare hope. But he also cannot stifle a budding feeling inside. A far-off image, of a new sunrise. A new day. A spark in the night. 

-

On his limited free time, Vader still likes to tinker. He mostly does this with starships and droids, but also finds time for his crimson-bladed saber, remodeled from his old Jedi weapon, which he'd taken back from the temple during Order 66. His Jedi robes he had left there to burn. 

At present, he finds himself putting down the tools in preparation for his Master's visit. Sidious rarely comes to see him in person, and when he does, Vader can often expect a punishment, whether it be for a lost target or a botched mission, or sometimes just taking too long on a mission.

There is very little left of the kindly mentor Vader used to know in his past life, as his past self. But the Sith apprentice prefers it this way. Just as Sidious helped Vader embrace his true nature, so he himself is now free of pretenses. And as the most powerful being in the Galaxy, a Sith Master of tremendous might and wisdom, he is right to demand precision; perfection, even. 

Vader kneels as the black-hooded figure shuffles into his sparse quarters, flanked by his Red Guards. The heavy fog of the dark side fills the room, wrapping him in its depths. The masked guards proceed to station themselves by either side of the blast door. 

”My Master,” Vader greets Sidious' arrival, head bowed. His body tenses as he half-expects his guest to return the courtesy with a bolt of lightning to the chest, or a kick to the jaw. But none surges forth.

”Rise, Lord Vader,” Sidious orders instead. Vader stands up. Sidious has moved over to his apprentice's workbench, picking up a metallic covering plate for idle examination. ”Hard at work… on sanitation droids, I see.”

”The entire series was faulty,” Vader explains. ”The constant malfunctions were causing disruptions on this station –”

Sidious waves off his ramblings, discarding the metal plate with a disinterested flick of his hand. ”Playing with droids. Still that same slave rat, with the same trifling ambitions, I see.”

Vader has nothing to say to that. 

”Now – let us make this concise, Lord Vader,” Sidious proposes, tenting his fingers. ”We passed a few months ago the two-year anniversary of the Empire's establishment. Two years – and already we have accomplished a great deal. The far majority of star systems have pledged allegiance to us – to _me_ – and according to estimates, we now control and utilize over seventy percent of the Galaxy's most important natural resources. Including living and breathing resources, if you will. We have opened more than twenty major weapons factories on the Outer Rim, and our little pet project – well, a 'pet' project of rather astronomical proportions – is coming along nicely.” 

The look in his sulphur eyes sharpens. ”More than a hundred Order 66 survivors have been terminated – more than ninety of them by your own hand. Apart from a few… disappointing turns, I am… quite pleased with your performance.”

”Thank you, my Master.”

”Perhaps…_ yes,_ perhaps, indeed,” Sidious hums enigmatically. ”The time has come for me to… thank _you,_ my apprentice.”

Vader keeps his head down, not daring to consider the possibility. Not even daring to look up at the mouth that so quickly would snatch away his hopes again.

That mouth is silent for a while, its owner walking in tantalizing circles around the room, tormenting its solitary audience. Then, at length, it opens, ”Five years ago… at the beginning of the Separatist crisis… an advisory body known as the Loyalist Committee was founded within the Senate. You might remember this. Your wife was involved for a time.” 

Vader shifts. To steady himself, he clasps his hands behind his back. 

”Loyalists, indeed," his Master continues, cackling soundlessly. ”So very loyal, they have still continued to toil away even after their disbanding. Only, it would seem that they have since defeated their purpose anyway and turned against my rule - which I might find amusing, did they not have the vanity to imagine I remain unaware of their existence. 

”Still, they have been of little consequence thus far, and of little use, too… until now. The useful ones, you see - they always have a_ price._ And for one Ister Paddie, it was two summer houses, a substantial pension plan and a university scholarship for his daughter. I wish Penla Paddie every success… and every consolation for her grief.”

Vader's blackened heart pumps wildly in his chest. Blood rushes into his head and thrums in his temples, as the tendrils of the dark side hiss in his ear what his Master still withholds. But not for long. 

"You might wonder what information our little canary offered in exchange for these… favors. Well, of particular interest to you, a ciphered message… deciphered as of this morning. Containing the detailed contact information of one Obi-Wan Kenobi."


	9. Olevir

”Doctor Se,” Sidious greets the Kaminoan scientist from atop his throne – one of the many. This one is situated on the top floor of the DSC-1 space station, function favored over style in its sturdy design. 

”My Lord,” Dr. Se dips her oval head in a bow, halting at the bottom of the steps leading to the dais upon which the Sith Lord sits. ”I understand your summons was urgent in nature. I trust you have remained satisfied with our product?”

Sidious scoffs. ”Urgency implies distress, Doctor. I do not experience distress, I create it. I simply like things to happen when I want them to happen, and people to move when I tell them to move.” 

”I see,” Dr. Se responds calmly. Her heads bobs down again. ”Well then, I am at your service, my Lord.” 

”Good, good,” Sidious croons. Smirking, he allows a mild excitement to pool in his gut as he thinks about all the delicious schemes soon about to come to fruition. But it will not do to get ahead of himself. Every small step is to be executed with the utmost care. ”Let me first assuage your concerns. I have been quite satisfied with all of my purchases from you, as well as all the adjustments you have kindly provided since.” 

Version 1.0 of Vader's control chip had got the job done, but upon closer inspection, it had not been without flaws. The chip's initial coding had been quite effective in manipulating the subject's thought processes and rendering him highly receptive to orders, but it had also latched on rather too hard to his irrational impulses and obsessions. This had resulted in evident lapses in judgment and forward planning, such as the subject fleeing the Jedi Temple without proper gear, in its haste to make contact with its Master. This deficiency has since been fine-tuned and corrected, along with a few other undesirable details. 

”I take it you are in need of another adjustment?”

Sidious' eyes narrow as he considers the proposition. Rather than answer the scientist directly, he licks his lips and elaborates. ”During our very first test run, of Version 1.0… there was one instance where, contrary to advertising, the subject was able to bypass a direct order… or at the very least, critically delay its execution. Namely, the execution of his old Jedi Master… Obi-Wan Kenobi. A most displeasing setback that almost cost me my newly minted apprentice.”

Se shrugs this off, tilting her seemingly poorly supported head. ”Well, as you said yourself, this took place at an early stage. Version 1.0 was a prototype.”

”You did not market it to me as a prototype.”

”My Lord, is there an issue?” 

The Sith Master regards her sourly, his fingers rapping against the armrest of his seat, itching to discover how a nice blast of lightning to the face would re-arrange those smug features. ”The subject is soon to cross paths with Kenobi again,” he growls, tamping down those urges. ”I had hoped this reunion would be of short duration, and would bring a swift… _closure_ to this issue. Alas, it just so happens that the slippery bastard holds some highly valuable information, forcing us to delay the carrying out of his sentence… until such time that this information is extracted. Preferably, my little pet will be doing the extracting himself… however, I need to be sure that their extended time together will not reawaken any previously held… fond sentiments.” 

Dr. Se bobs her head. ”I understand that at present, there exists genuine animosity between the two men.”

”…Yes.”

A minimal nod, again. ”That does make our job easier. However, if you want to be sure, my Lord…” Her bulging irises scan the ceiling as she deliberates. ”I could temporarily reduce the subject's capacity for independent thinking and novel ideation. We have previously tested this update on the 212th Clone Battalion. The update only targets stimuli to three areas of the brain that control self-reflection and ideology, so it should have no effect on the subject's cognitive ability, nor his combat performance.”

Sidious kneads at the sallow skin of his chin. ”Should not, or will not?”

”Will not, my Lord.” 

”Hm. Very well,” Sidious hums as he pulls out a datapad from a compartment in his armrest. ”I shall schedule a… check-up, for today afternoon.” He frowns with momentary hesitancy, ”This is one of those quick adjustments, is it not? That you can perform by laser, without opening up his head?” 

”Yes, my Lord. No further surgery nor subsequent bedrest required.” 

”Excellent.”

-

Vader fails to see the need to sedate him at the end of every routine health examination, and a part of him resents the loss of control. Still, he complies without a fuss, lying down on the silver table while his physician, Dr. Pel, prepares a hypo. The taciturn Kaminoan has already given him a clean bill of health, in almost all conceivable respects, and all that remains is this mandatory appraisal of Vader's 'respiratory rate and neural activity during sleep'. 

The long-necked alien leans over his patient, holding his arm down as he dispenses the chilly contents of the hypo into a waiting vein. It is a fast-acting little devil, Vader remembers from the previous times, and then all thought fades as the drug pulls him under. 

-

Mere fifteen minutes before the start of their mission briefing, Rex finds himself sneaking out of the conference room on some lame excuse. Lord Vader does not tolerate tardiness, but he himself has yet to arrive, and usually does so on the dot and not a second early. And Rex finds he needs a moment alone, in the deserted corridor. The conference room is suffocating, filled with brainwashed toy soldiers standing rigid from wall to wall, and if he has look into the dead glaze in their eyes for another second, Rex feels he's going to burst. 

Blast door clanking shut behind him, Rex slumps against the wall and pinches the bridge of his nose. Today proved inopportune for escape – but will there_ ever_ be an opportune time? And even if he did manage to get out, how does that guarantee he'll ever find a way to help his brothers? The literal millions of men enslaved to the behemoth that is the Empire? Where does he even begin, with such a daunting endeavor? 

Before desperation can overwhelm him, Rex's ears perk up to sounds from an adjacent corridor. Vaguely, he recognizes it as the direction of the infirmary… that's right, they are only in this part of the building because Vader was scheduled to have a health examination today… just before this briefing… 

And then the approaching footfalls have already turned to long, visible strides as none other than Lord Vader rounds the corner. The brainwashed part of Rex's brain kicks in as he stands to attention, hand snapping up to his temple. But there is someone with him today, a tall figure in a white labcoat… a Kaminoan. 

Vader seems to start a little at the sight of Rex as the two of them draw closer. At the very least, he seems surprised and displeased. Far be it from the legendary Jedi killer to _recoil_ at something. Not that Rex would even care, he is still wondering about the Kaminoan. 

At the door to the conference room, the odd pair part ways. 

”You might feel some dizziness for the next few hours,” the Kaminoan is explaining as he goes, ”but it should pass by the time you –”

”Thank you for your services, Dr. Pel,” Vader growls in response as he turns away. A deep scowl is etched across his brow as he opens the blast door with the Force, muttering something about giving Rex 'specific orders, to wait _in_ the room.'

Entering behind Vader, Rex's neck is still craned in the Kaminoan's direction as he stalks away. 

He wasn't just any Kaminoan. He had that clinical smell on him that Rex used to know from _his_ Kamino.

-

”I'll make this short,” Vader barks at his task team, gathered around the conference table in stiff standing positions. Ten identical men whose names he once used to know, before the new Empire protocol decreed all troopers be referred to by their numbers only. Vader avoids addressing them by any name, just as he avoids speaking to any of them individually or looking any of them in the eye. Most often, he makes them wear helmets in his presence, even though there is no official protocol that requires this. 

”You know the drill,” the Sith apprentice continues as impersonal helmets listen through their earpieces. ”Jedi fugitive, hiding on a remote planet. Except, the drill is different this time. The mission objective is capture, not termination. I repeat: under no circumstances are you permitted to kill the target. Any attempts made on his life will cost you your own. Is that understood?”

A chorus of _yessir _rings across the room. 

”I should note…” Vader hesitates, looks down, thinks twice about the need to note. Then he decides to get it over with. ”…that this particular target will be more… familiar to you than some of the others we have dealt with in the past. Namely… as General Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

Scarcely has the name left his lips when there is a stir in the Force. Vader is quick to isolate the source, who shifts where he stands, rolls back his shoulders. The Sith apprentice frowns. First he finds his second-in-command skulking around in the corridor and has his authority undercut in front of him by that Kaminoan quack prattling about 'dizziness', and now his trusted captain… 

… probably just had an involuntary reaction to a name he recognized. Vader scoffs at his own paranoia. What reason does he have to doubt Re– CT-7567? And if any of his troopers did want to rethink their loyalty to the Empire, well – he gave them a fair warning. 

”And that's all I have to say on the subject. Let's go.” 

-

Lately, Obi-Wan has thought about relocating from Nekka. He has grown quite fond of the rustic community – but he's still not sure if he deserves that luxury, the luxury of becoming attached to something. And for once, it is not old Jedi platitudes that hold him back – it is the very real risk that he, a high-profile fugitive, poses to his fellow inhabitants. One of these days, someone is bound to recognize him. A traveling bounty hunter, or a father of four hurting for credits, or just someone who has caught a Holonet feature in the last five years. And when they sell him to the Empire, they most likely will not spare a second thought to whatever collateral damage they will invite into their village, or unto themselves. Greed and desperation do funny things to people. 

Obi-Wan had originally reasoned, if he settled among people, rather than isolated himself completely, he could still be of some use to this world. He'd still be able to able to help people, even if just a precious few, stay true to his Jedi vows, in some small, symbolic way. He thought, if he got involved with the community, but did not call attention to himself, he'd eventually be able to hide in plain sight. Blend into the scenery. Be 'just Ben.' 'Oh, that? That's just Ben.' 

Clearly, he underestimated the sharp-eyed villagers. When he first arrived on Colstev, they would tell him, 'There's something about you', ask him over and over, 'Where _are_ you from?' And even now, they still give him funny looks – not of recognition, but of curiosity. Looks that seem to say, 'You want to blend in, but stick out like a baron at a poorhouse.' 

Of course, most of them would never harbor any ill intention. They just cannot begin to suspect the depth of the black hole they're poking their noses into. Like Olevir. Olevir and his mother are Obi-Wan's closest neighbors, living three empty hovels away from his own humble abode. A Pantoran boy of six, Olevir developed a deep admiration of Obi-Wan after he saw the newly settled hermit chase down a thief at the market. Since then, the boy has been following him around like a shadow, bombarding him with questions and things his mother has said on a given day, or in general. 

A few times, Obi-Wan has mind-tricked him away – which, he knows, is rather low of him. Most of the time, he spares the kid a few minutes before distracting him with something or losing him in a crowd. He is a sweet little lad, but the last thing Obi-Wan needs is another innocent to take under his wing and inevitably fail to protect. 

”Ben! Hey, hey, wait up, Ben!” 

Well, not if Olevir has anything to say about it. 

A heavy sigh wafts through the evening air as Obi-Wan turns around to see a familiar silhouette hot on his heels. 

Lively running steps catch up to him quickly. Even through the dimness, the pint-sized boy's blue cheeks glow with excitement as he falls into a brisk pace beside his idol. The former Jedi favors him with a smile that starts out as false, but melts into a reluctant sincerity as the pair pad along the rough alleyway. Huts made of clay and hay and stone pass them by, the dwellers themselves starting to retire inside in anticipation of another cold, windy night. 

”Where are you going?” the boy demands. 

”For a stroll.”

”Can I come with you?”

”No.”

The boy reaches to the frayed belt hanging on his hip and pulls up what looks to be a wooden branch. On a closer look, its shape is vaguely suggestive of a lightsaber. He swings it around in aimless motions. ”Mom says there's monsters out there, in the wastelands. She says you shouldn't go out there alone.” 

Obi-Wan feels the skin crinkle on the corners of his eye. ”Really, I appreciate the sentiment,” he says patiently. ”But the answer is still no.” 

”What's a sentiment?”

”My personal undoing.”

”What's an undoing?”

As they come up to the village gate, Obi-Wan traps the boy under a stern gaze. ”Right now, I am yours, if you don't run along soon.”

”Mom says you're lonely,” the kid babbles on. ”And she says that loneliness kills people.”

”Well, you better go keep her company then.”

It's a cheap shot, but it does the trick. The boy shrinks back, mouth snapping open in horror. He glances nervously in the village's direction. 

”Okay, but can I see you tomorrow?”

”Good night, Olevir,” Obi-Wan wishes as he puts a hand on the boy's shoulder and gently urges him on his way. The boy keeps glancing back as he goes, waving his hand and his sword in alternate turns. Obi-Wan waits until he's vanished into the night before continuing in the opposite direction. But the images and flashes that haunt his thoughts do not vanish. They grow ever clearer, as real and present as the starless sky above. 

Anakin's first lightsaber lesson. Anakin toppling down on the training mat. Anakin chuckling at a dry joke he didn't really understand. Anakin pelting him with questions about how many planets Obi-Wan has visited, what kind of ships he has piloted, when he would get to fly one. Things his mother has said. Things his mother has taught him. Things he misses most about his mother. 

Obi-Wan pinches his eyes shut and rubs his temples as he treks through the barren lands, painted blue by the cool night. But the images flash brighter and the voices scream louder. And the silences loudest of all. 

Resigned to his torment, Obi-Wan watches the passage of rocky earth at his feet as another reality engulfs his vision, as Olevir's face is again and again replaced with that of another small boy he once knew. A boy who lost his way – whom _he_ lost, but cannot stop missing. 

It is almost as though… the clop of his boots ceases as he freezes still. He shakes his head, barking out a laughter. It's almost as though he can feel him. As though he's right here, with him. 

As though… there is a presence… a presence he's not felt since…

His gaze snaps up to the sky. Just at that moment, the clouds part in a narrow line, but not to reveal the shimmering form of his home planet and lone solace on so many a lonely night.

For tonight, he is not alone. 


	10. The Reason

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some more torture in this chapter. mostly mental/non-graphic in nature. however, the perpetrator is NOT Sidious. basically, we haven't quite reached the eventual comfort bit of that hurt/eventual comfort tag just yet. 
> 
> but that doesn't mean there's not progress… C:

The next few moments pass in a frozen blur as Obi-Wan watches the Imperial starship glide down from the murky skies. Time seems to stand still right alongside the former Jedi. If somewhere in the back of his mind, there is a desperate search for an escape, it never registers. There is but one thought, one blazing realization, that lances through his consciousness in this moment. 

_Anakin._

A sweeping rush of air washes over Obi-Wan as the bulky ship makes contact with the rocky soil. He digs his feet into the ground, arm over his eyes. The engines are still running when the hatch opens and a ramp comes down. 

Obi-Wan lowers his arm… and there he stands. 

In the nocturnal darkness, he is but a splotch of black, but Obi-Wan would know him anywhere. Life or death, dream or reality. And Obi-Wan only knows this is no dream because surely no dream could imitate the jumble of emotions swirling through him. 

He always knew that the day would come when the two of them would reunite, just as he knew there was never going to be a right time or a right place for that reunion. But that did not stop him from postponing the inevitability. Over and over, the former Jedi has told himself that he walked away from the rebellion because of his unwillingness to share the bounty on his head. But deep down he knows the real reason, and Obi-Wan is looking right at him. He always knew that one way or another, sooner or later… they would make him fight Anakin. He had run from that fate once, and never had stopped. 

A lot of good that did him. 

Vader barely spares him a glance as he stalks down the ramp, followed by a cluster of stormtroopers. Obi-Wan remains rooted to the spot as a half-circle of blasters proceed to surround him. Vader moves to stand in the very middle, his scarlet blade bursting alive to illuminate his gaunt features and throw an eerie gleam in his dark gold eyes. 

Obi-Wan manages a mildly amused sound as he takes in the crowd gathered before him. ”You are many things these days, _Darth_… but I never took you for a coward.” 

”I take it you're coming quietly, then? I'm not seeing much of an initiative here,” Vader spits in response. An involuntary shudder quakes through Obi-Wan as he hears that voice, a voice so entirely alien and all-too-familiar at the same time. Vader scoffs. ”In fact… tell me what I want to know, and I might just leave you here, to your misery.”

Obi-Wan sighs. ”You never were a great liar, either.”

”Enough chit-chat!” Vader is suddenly screaming, spit flying past his blade in little red dots._ ”Where is Padmé?!”_ he roars._ ”Is she here?!”_

His shrieks wane into the night, leaving Vader shaking in anger. Obi-Wan regards him sadly, indulges in a silent lament for Anakin, his beloved Anakin, mauled beyond recognition by this pitiable creature. Slowly, he reaches for the lightsaber hidden in a pouch on his belt. Even in his frenzied state, Vader makes no move to stop him. Fresh azure cuts into the red-tinged night, casting contrasting streaks on his enemies' forms.

”I know you hid her away,” Vader presses on through clenched teeth. ”She's here, isn't she?” 

Obi-Wan averts his gaze, engages in a dance of dawdling, shifting, stalling uselessly for time. Goes through the motions of being uncooperative. 

Vader's patience runs thin, and then finally out. He nods to his troopers. ”Whatever happens… do not shoot.”

He takes a moment to make sure his orders were heard and understood – and then he lunges. 

Obi-Wan did not miss the inherent warning in Vader's command – and still, the Sith somehow manages to catch him off guard. Obi-Wan blocks the first few swings and then he's already falling back, as blue and red flicker across his vision – 

Next thing he knows, his legs have slipped out from under him, his weapon has been disengaged from his grip, and the back of his head crashes hard against the ground. When he opens his eyes, all he sees is a crimson haze. Then the crimson shifts and Vader bends forward until his head is inches from Obi-Wan's own, and the fire in his eyes could almost burn away his skin. He leans over him, holding his sizzling red over Obi-Wan's neck. A few steps away, someone stoops to collect Obi-Wan's own, lost blue. 

”She's here, isn't she?” Vader's hissing breaths pool over his beard. Disoriented from the defeat, Obi-Wan waits a moment too long to answer, and Vader's rage boils over, _”Isn't she?!”_

”No,” Obi-Wan croaks. 

_”Liar!”_ Vader shrieks in his face. ”I know you hid them in that village.” His weight shifts on top of Obi-Wan as he turns to his troopers. ”Cuff him and throw him in the brig. We're searching that village, now!”

Vader gets up, dragging Obi-Wan to his feet with him by the collar. From there, he's unceremoniously shoved to another rough pair of hands. When Vader turns to lead the way back to the ship, Obi-Wan hears himself yelping, ”No!” 

His captor whips around, bemused. 

”No,” Obi-Wan insists, as his wrists are yanked behind his back and slapped into binders. ”You will not find them there. Padmé and the children. You will not find them in that village.”

”Throw him in the brig,” Vader barks. 

”Anakin, listen to me!” The name just slips out, unbidden and unwelcome, but it certainly gets Vader's attention. He holds up a hand, and the trooper holding Obi-Wan freezes. 

The prisoner swallows. ”Searching that village is a waste of your time,” he says in a slow, deliberate voice, better suited for correcting a petulant child. ”That's the last thing you want, right? Y-you won. You found me. I'm willing to cooperate. Leave that village be and I'll tell you where Padmé is. Once we're in hyperspace… I'll tell you where she is. Alright?” 

Vader scoffs. ”You obviously want to protect this village, and you expect me to believe they're _not_ in there?”

”Yes… I do. Do you want to find your family, or not? Or do you want to waste your time?”

Obi-Wan feels his heart racing as he waits for the answer._ Not Nekka,_ he prays to the Force. _Not today. _

Some time passes until Vader gives a grim nod and signals for the troopers to start the engines and hyperdrive. Obi-Wan feels a hard shove in the back of his knees, urging him onward. 

Distantly, he wonders about tomorrow morning. For how long Olevir will look for him when he finds his favorite neighbor gone, how many other neighbors he will drive up the wall with that endeavor, and how he will feel when he finally does give up. And he wonders if his last, scrambling attempt at valor will even make a difference, if it will amount to anything beyond a fulfillment of his own selfish, pathological fantasy to save a little boy he once knew. 

-

When Obi-Wan feels the unmistakable lurch that heralds their entrance into hyperspace, he, at least, is safely secured in place by ray cuffs in a containment field. The cell around him is dim, only illuminated by the faint blue glow of his floating prison. 

He doesn't have to wait long for Vader to arrive. There is the whizz of a blast door, and there he is. Obi-Wan's still-moving irises follow his grim form as he stalks over to the center of the room, where the prisoner is hovering in the air. The blue shimmer of the containment field throws eerie patterns on the Sith's face, splitting the horrid, yellow gaze that bores into the captive. 

”Well? Where are they?” 

Obi-Wan presses his eyes shut. ”Lianna,” he sighs. 

Vader steps closer. Without breaking eye contact, he stretches his arm out until his fingertips hover just inches from the blue fog of the containment field. In moments, his arm begins to shake – not in fear, but in control; rising up to call upon and tame to submission a staggering, cosmic power. Power that breaks forcibly through the prisoner's skin and pierces his skull and rushes in cold gusts into his brain – 

Clenching his teeth together, Obi-Wan attempts to fend off the intruder, but the Force evades his grasp, slips beyond his reach in the turbid vacuum of the containment field. The veins in his head are throbbing and twinging, his skull bursting out of its flesh cocoon. The darkness's claws probe and pry and pierce through his thoughts and Obi-Wan hears himself whimpering – 

The pain ceases with the words, ”You're lying.”

Obi-Wan releases a pained breath. His lids flutter ajar, to find the hazy form of Vader seething below him. ”We had a deal,” he hisses out a reminder. ”I expected tricks, but I demand cooperation. Unless, you'd rather _I_ didn't cooperate?”

”N-no,” Obi-Wan manages to grind out. He knows now that Vader is just humoring him with 'the deal'. His powers have grown too great, mixed too deep with the dark and the unnatural. If he scours any further, he will inevitably know the truth. In a shuddering voice, the prisoner rushes to say, ”Derra IV. Tempora. Just along the Temmer. That is where I took them.” 

Vader's upward gaze pierces through the containment field, surveying, searching. A hand quickly rises to accompany it. Obi-Wan hangs helpless and immobile under his captor's scrutiny, head twitching from side to side as the horrible clawed fingers assault his mind – until finally, the hand is retracted and a mutter is heard, ”I detect no deceit in this claim.” 

_And you wouldn't,_ Obi-Wan thinks through the agony, _because it is the truth. That is where I took her… and that is the place I had the foresight to convince her to leave._

”That's awfully far from Colstev,” Vader observes. A frown settles over his face as he appears to fall into silent deliberation. ”So you just…” The frown stretches and spreads until his features twist into an awful grimace. ”…discarded them like _garbage,_ after you went to such lengths to_ steal_ them from me?” 

Obi-Wan sighs. Only now – as he is once again forced to look upon this creature that destroyed his Padawan, study those seemingly familiar features that it took for its own and warped out of shape – does he understand just how deeply… he does not understand. 

”Anakin… I need to know,” he says weakly. ”Is that – is that why you turned to the dark side? Because you thought I was having an affair with your wife?”

Vader bares his teeth. His clenched jaw just barely seems to keep at bay the fury that once again threatens to explode. Then it floods over anyway, and he whips his hand across the air. The click of a switch is Obi-Wan's only warning before the passive blue fog around him comes alive, crackling and sizzling and rushing in flares through the prisoner's body and making his muscles seize and _burn_ – 

When Obi-Wan next looks down, panting and shaking, venom and resentment seem to be foaming through Vader's gritted teeth. But Obi-Wan is not intimidated. While Vader might be capable of inflicting pain on him, he cannot _hurt_ him. Whatever physical torments he throws at his old Master now will be insignificant compared to the agony he's already put him through. 

”Please,” the prisoner rasps. ”Just tell me, Anakin. Why? Why did you turn to the dark side?”

The hum of the containment field fills a brief silence, and then… something happens. 

Vader takes a step back, and either Obi-Wan's vision is still shaking, or he is. Through the blue mist, he thinks he catches an odd expression flashing in Vader's eyes. Or maybe he imagines it. Maybe he imagines him whispering, too, still teetering where he stands, ”…I don't know.” 

Obi-Wan decides to humor his imagination. ”You don't know?”

In the blink of an eye, the mirage dissolves, and Vader stands tall and stern once more. Lurid yellow fills his irises as he glares at the prisoner. ”This conversation is over." With that, he turns to leave. 

-

”Good work, Lord Vader.”

The flickering blue figure on his palm shrinks before the rare praise. Sidious smirks. After two years of hard work, much of his treasured Empire is already running on automation, without his direct supervision or involvement. The timing is ideal. He can happily take some time to focus on his captive apprentice and the next few steps on his unique journey through the dark side, as well as their shared legacy to Sithdom. 

Securing Kenobi was an essential step, but in the grand scheme of things, it will ultimately end up a mere footnote. Just as Amidala will. 

”We shall keep him alive until your wife and children have been located and secured,” Sidious instructs. ”I would not rule out the possibility that he is still trying to trick you.”

”Yes, Master.” 

Sidious frowns as his holoprojector starts blinking, signaling a call on another frequency. His brow folds lift up in interest when he recognizes the code. 

”You have my permission to continue on to Derra without checking back here first,” he quickly informs Vader, pallid finger already hovering over the switch button. ”Give the little ones my warmest regards.” 

”Yes, Ma –” 

Vader is cut off when the Sith Master swaps calls. ”Dr. Se… on our _secret_ frequency. You have any news for me?” 


	11. The Disappeared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HELLO extra long chapter -wipes sweat-

”…the public were only informed of the Jedis' demise after the fact, when the latter had been placed under investigation, declared guilty and dealt the ultimate punishment within, seemingly, a 24-hour period. The sheer… efficiency of action demonstrated here suggests that the then-Chancellor literally acted as the judge, jury and executioner in their extermination. And not only was he efficient, he was thorough. While the police were still speculating about potential treasonous intent that could be brewing within the heart of the Order, Chancellor Palpatine had already ordered the summary execution of, among others, approximately 2,000 Jedi younglings and Padawans under the age of 12. This would make up 25% of the entirety of the Order. Just some… statistics that your textbook fails to mention.” 

Padmé pauses, gaze dropping to browse the notes on her datapad. Only now as her own voice trails away, does she become aware just how profoundly silent the classroom has fallen. She looks up to see everyone leaning on the edge of their seats, listening with anxious anticipation. 

She glances at the chronometer and grimaces. That's another fifteen minutes of overtime. She hurries to slap the button at the corner of the holoboard, which wipes it clean. 

”Alright, class, I have given you some food for thought, hopefully,” she hastens to conclude, clapping her palms together. ”For homework, I would like you to expand on those thoughts. Shall we say, five hundred words? Does that seem fair? If you need specific questions to get your thought process flowing, you will find some on the other side of the handout I gave earlier. Quiz tomorrow, don't forget. Okay, that's all for today.” 

Padmé looks on from behind her desk as participants of her newest class, Recent Galactic History 201, start to file out of the room. Many cast her uncertain looks as they go, while others seem to regard her with something close to reverence in their eyes. A resting smile on her face, Padmé is very aware of how hard she tries to look friendly and approachable. The kind of teacher who always has time for questions after class. 

Still learning everyone's names, Padmé tries to put a name to each face as she watches them trickle into the hallway._ There's Seban, the sharp-witted Mon Calamari kid, and Jara, the shy human girl… _

”Miss Neta-Lee?”

_And that's Kasendra_, Padmé smiles at the petite Falleen girl approaching her desk,_ the perpetual frowner. _

”Yes, Kasendra?” she asks warmly, though her friendliness seems to deflect off the girl like a mind trick off a Jedi Master. She feels her scowl burning into the side of her cheek as she takes a moment to wave goodbye to the last of her classmates, before granting Kasendra her undivided attention. ”Did you have a question?” 

”Um, yes…” Kasendra mutters out, brows knitted together and eyes scanning the floor. ”I wanted to ask you, Miss… your little boy and girl… are they twins?” 

Padmé's draws her head back. Whatever she expected, it certainly wasn't this. She doesn't make a habit of bringing Luke and Leia to the school, but she supposes her students might have seen them with Moteé once or twice, popping in for a surprise visit, or coming to meet her after a long workday. 

”Yes,” she replies warily, seeing no harm in adding, ”Their names are Luke and Leia.”

”Well, they're very cute,” Kasendra compliments, eyes tipping upward. ”You must love them very much.”

”Yes… very much,” Padmé says tersely, starting to grow a little anxious. ”Kasendra –”

”Wait, I have another question. You know that the government-approved curriculum is available on the Holonet, right? And that deviating from it can get you thrown in jail? Do you see where I'm going with this, Miss Neta-Lee?” Padmé does, and she tries to cut in, but the girl yells over her, ”So I guess, what I'm asking you is if you love your kids more than you hate the Empire… or if it's the other way around.” 

Padmé puts up her hands in a peace-offering gesture. ”Yes, I am familiar with the curriculum,” she answers, although that wasn't the question. ”I… I tend to use it as a jumping-off point for my classes. However… my time as aide to Senator Farr has given me a broader perspective into certain –” 

”You probably think you're doing everything right, yeah?” Kasendra interrupts, cheeks heating up in deeper shades of green. ”Being careful with your words. Not forcing your views, encouraging independent thinking and what-not…” Her voice drops with her gaze. ”You know… my mom thought the same. She was an assistant to a Senator, too. Before they made her… disappear.” She looks up into Padmé's widened eyes. ”They're making someone disappear every other day now.” 

A stunned silence falls between the pair as Padmé stares at her young pupil. Mixing with a rush of fierce compassion, a sudden realization grips at her chest. The daughter of a Senator's personal assistant would have lived on Coruscant. She would have been familiar with other prominent politicians. 

She isn't addressing her warning to some backcountry community college professor with a few revisionist opinions. She is confronting a fellow fugitive. 

”You can raise your kids any way you want,” Kasendra tells her as she turns to leave. ”Teach them to hate that foul little raisin with a burning passion for all I care. Just keep those sentiments out of the public arena. Or they'll be raising themselves soon enough.” 

Padmé's heart sinks as the girl stalks off. She makes to chase after her, before skidding to an abrupt halt. There is nothing she can say that could possibly offer any comfort. 

-

Had Vader still possessed a heart, or just the ability to focus on anything beyond the single objective that has brought him to this corner of the Galaxy, he might have found Derra charming. The planet is all grassy fields criss-crossed with narrow hill ranges and bubbling rivers. Tempora is a quaint port town lodged between two giants; a vast, shimmering sea and an endless green plain that the locals have taken to calling just that, The Endless Plain. Marking the border between downtown and its peripheries, the Temmer river basks peacefully in the evening sun, its seaward extremities curving into the shape of a heart. Upon it all rests a kind of a hypnotic quietude: the mesmerizing illusion of peace. 

But these are all observations that Vader makes with nothing but the greatest dispassion and detachment. Building a mental map in his head, to help him reach his goal with maximum efficiency, just as he would on any other mission. If there is a scrap of sentimentality left in him, he'll save it for a more worthy giftee. 

_The Tenebrae_ is cloaked in stealth mode when it begins its descent through the atmosphere, but just to avoid any unwanted attention, Vader has the pilot land the ship behind a tall hill at about a klick's distance from the nearest dwellings. In contrast to the calm, balmy evening outside, there is a storm brewing inside of the Sith apprentice. Already he can sense her presence. _Their_ presence. He can hardly think through the building tempest that gradually replaces the steady beat of his heart and the controlled flow of his breathing.

Still, he forces a facade of self-possession as he sets about giving instructions to his troopers for the duration of his absence. He doesn't want to be surrounded by blood-smeared helmets and blasters when he reunites with his wife for the first time in two years. When he sets his eyes upon his children for the first time ever. A stab of bitterness twists through him.

Vader's mind is elsewhere when eyes fall on his second-in-command, awaiting his orders in dutiful silence. His brow crinkles in a frown as he regards the clone captain, an indefinable discomfort eating at him. The feeling is quick to give way to the sheer hurry he finds himself in, a fly's buzz buried amid the deafening screams reverberating through his head. The all-consuming yearning to regain that which was lost and now lies within a hand's reach. 

”I want four guards on the prisoner's cell at all times,” Vader barks at the row of helmets in front of him. His lips part for further instructions, but nothing comes out. He throws Rex a half-glance before spinning on his heel and exiting through the hatch. 

-

At the Tempora Port College, Tsabin Neta-Lee teaches a wide variety of subjects; ranging from politics, geography and anthropology to sociology, media studies and environmental studies. 

For such a versatile educator, Miss Neta-Lee is remarkably young. Having existed for only about year and a half, she is younger than her toddler-aged children. She remembers walking into the faculty head's office for the first time, her long hems crinkled and her hair a mess, with a snuffling bundle attached to both her chest and back, and announcing without preamble that she was a single mother and needed a job. 

And that was the day Padmé Amidala died and was reborn as someone else. 

There were perks to being Padmé Amidala. She was a former Queen and a committed public servant. She was powerful, someone who was able to fight for those who could not fight for themselves and speak for those whose voices fell unheard. As a legislator, she was in an enviable position to effectuate concrete change in society and make a difference in countless lives across the Galaxy. 

At least, that's how she'd envisioned it in her head. That's what she'd spent years upon years to convince herself she was doing. Only for it all to turn out to be a glorified puppet show to cover up for the crimes and further the insidious plans of one man. A man she'd trusted. A man she'd made those same excuses for, same rationalizations and compromises for, because he was supposed to share her dreams. He was supposed to deserve her faith. 

She could have hardly attached those hopes to a less deserving recipient. 

Many times she has since wondered if Padmé Amidala ever really had any power at all. If it was all only ever an illusion, a temporary tool put in her hand to be tugged about on a marionette string. She used to ask herself these questions while sunken in the deepest pits of depression. Now, she draws comfort from her past failures. She made it out of that world. The person she is now may have less – less power, less influence, less on her daily agenda. But what she has is tangible and real. The difference she is making, the lives she is touching; no longer are they faceless masses or unrealized visions or tools to be exploited in some scheme. They're right here, in front of her. They're her students, and they're the Galaxy's future. And through that future, she seeks redemption from the past. 

The government-issued curriculum for public schools and colleges was published earlier this year. As a politician, Padmé has seen her share of spin, bias and words twisted out of context. Never in her life has she seen such a shameless rewrite of history, such a thinly veiled instrument of indoctrination, with each page littered with misinformation and propaganda more blatant and disgusting than the last.

When Padmé first sat down to familiarize herself with the material, she thought she was going to be sick. She was ready to resign that night, entirely rethink her plan to acquire a livelihood. She didn't want to spread Palpatine's lies any more than she wanted to preach the truth. She didn't want any reminders of everything she'd left behind. Everything she'd lost and helped that monster gain. And she certainly didn't want to earn a living as her own mouthpiece of those reminders. 

But then… she'd heaved a deep breath and thought it over. To stay back, to stay silent… would be to let somebody else speak in her stead. Someone who might be less willing to use their own voice. 

She'd already walked away from the Senate. She'd abandoned her homeworld, her calling and her duty, leaving her colleagues to fend for themselves against the Emperor's nonsense, to be used in brand new schemes and rendered silent in the face of all new injustices. 

She was done running. She was through with silence. 

But Kasendra is not wrong. She walks on thin ice every day. The head of faculty is a passive supporter of the Empire, part of a small elite benefiting from the regime's abuse of the masses. The mere thought that she could be endangering her children or her students with her actions is unbearable to her. She thinks back to today's encounter, considers the depth of fear and distress she saw in Kasendra's eyes as she pleaded for her teacher to stop and spare her children the fate she suffered. 

She wonders why she is not more afraid. 

-

Rex knows he has to act quickly, and he knows he only has one shot. 

While Fox, Jesse, Evert and Levi stand guard at Kenobi's cell, with Stamina, Gregor, Hawk, Grip and Creed taking a break in the back cabins, Rex gets the cockpit all to himself. He climbs up on the pilot's seat. Stowed in a compartment overhead is a spare vial of Starless Night, an extremely potent sedative. Just a small drop is enough to knock a Jedi Master out for the count, as Rex has witnessed first-hand on the odd capture mission. 

He prepares nine fist-sized bottles of water, and in each of them he doses a few drops of the clear liquid. He pushes away any pesky thoughts about the morality of his methods. He'd drug and kidnap every last one of his brothers if that was at all a viable option. And he'd absolutely take the time to explain and get them all on the same page if there was such time to be taken. The only thing he wants more than for his brothers to know the truth is for his brothers to be free. Hence, priorities. 

Something he has learned serving under the most intimidating man in the Galaxy – if you do or say anything with confidence, with authority, no one will question you. You can bend the world to your will by acting like you're in charge. Conveniently for Rex, he doesn't have to act. By virtue of his rank, he _is_ the one in charge. 

He heads to the cabins first, where Stamina, Gregor, Hawk, Grip and Creed sit cross-legged around a shallow table, engaged in what looks like a rather half-hearted game of cards. Upon the entrance of their commanding officer, they shoot up from the floor and stand to attention in a domino effect. 

Rex clears his throat. ”I've just received a communication from Lord Vader,” he improvises, wishing, rather tardily, that he'd put a little more thought into this. ”Something's gone wrong with the extraction. Lord Vader suspects there's a traitor in our midst.” He proffers up the mini bottles with both hands. ”These are laced with a powerful truth serum. Vader's orders. He'll interrogate us all as soon as he gets back. Drink up, boys.” 

The troopers cast him puzzled (and nervous) looks, but accept the bottles all the same. 

-

”Is there anything else you need, milady?”

”No, Moteé,” Padmé shakes her head, ”I think we can make it through the last of these beans by ourselves. What do you think, Luke?” 

The little boy on the next seat grimaces. A hopeless noise escapes him as his mother brings the spoon closer to his pinched-together lips. His nose scrunches up at the offending goo piled on it. From across the cabin, Moteé offers a sympathetic smile. ”Good luck, sport.” 

”Good night! See you tomorrow!” Padmé waves after her former handmaiden as she steps over the threshold from the gently rocking houseboat to solid ground. 

The mother of two smiles fondly as she gazes after her receding steps, a rush of gratitude flooding through her. While she was in Senator Amidala's service, Moteé was always a competent and dependable professional, but the two women never shared a particularly close relationship. Not until Amidala's life was turned upside down and spiraled into a prolonged dark period. While Padmé is equally thankful to everyone who helped her through her trying times; Moteé, in the end, was the one who stayed. While it's true that she didn't have a family to go back to like Typho did, or mystical Jedi vows to honor like Obi-Wan did, she was young and educated and she could have gone anywhere in the world. But she chose to stay and build a life here. When she isn't living the dream as a poorly paid and wildly overqualified babysitter, she finds time for a second job in town._ I don't know how you do it,_ Padmé praises her often and profusely. 

Especially whenever she feels guilty for picturing someone else in her place, nudging beans in Luke's mouth or singing Leia to sleep. 

”Come on, Luke, eat up,” she encourages her son, who continues to dodge the spoon like it is a death ray. 

”But I wan' play,” he protests. ”Leia gets t'play.” He points to his sister, perched on her small bed on the far end of the oval cabin, fitting building blocks together. 

”Your sister already ate her beans and that's why she gets to play.”

”I don' _like_ beans. I like _play_,” Luke explains, emphasizing the key words with all the righteous passion he can muster. 

”They good for you, Luke,” his sister chimes in from the corner. 

”No, they' bad.”

”They taste bad, they're good for you,” his mother clarifies. 

Luke's small shoulders slump down in defeat. ”No one understands,” the two-and-a-half-year-old announces with all the world-weariness of a wizened old man. Padmé chuckles sympathetically at his misery. Her gaze wanders to the windows. The golden evening sun dances across the river's tranquil waters, glittering as the gentle waves rock their humble dwelling. 

”No… I understand,” Padmé says softly. ”Tell you what, why don't you eat just _one_ more bean,” she raises a corresponding finger, ”just one – then we'll all go play outside.”

”O-okay,” Luke sputters bravely. The mother and son seal their bargain with an exchange of smiles. Then, quite abruptly, Luke's face falls. Padmé hasn't even picked up the spoon, let alone resumed pestering him with it. He doesn't appear to have the upcoming survival battle on his mind at all. He just sits there, frozen, staring at nothing. 

”Luke?”

From across the cabin, a dull jingle is heard as the building blocks fall out of Leia's hands. Her head whips around the room, every which way. 

”Mom?” she asks uncertainly. 

”What is it, sweetie?” Padmé asks, head darting between either twin. 

”Mom?” she repeats. 

”I'm here.” 

”I ate bean,” Luke announces happily when Padmé whips back to him. The disturbance forgotten, he brandishes a pair of messy hands in triumph. At the other end of the cabin, Leia reaches for the pieces of her fallen tower and continues playing as though nothing happened. 

-

Rex wipes sweat off his brow as he gingerly lowers the last of his armored cargo at his feet. On the floor, his captives lie curled up and comatose. Rex grimaces as he turns to the blast door separating Cell 3171 from the rest of the prison block. He hates this part of the plan, he really does. To have to lock up the very men he is supposedly liberating seems counter-intuitive at best. But he'll take counter-intuitive over counter-mutiny.

As for the next part of the plan, the clone captain doesn't exactly have one in mind. But he has a strong feeling the answer lies behind this very door. Rex bites his lip as he punches in the code to deactivate the lock system. With a whizz, the blast doors break apart. He takes off his helmet and tosses it in the doorway to keep it open, before sticking his head into the dimly lit space. In the center of the cell, Obi-Wan Kenobi is suspended in a containment field. The former Jedi stirs awake from what looks like a half-stupor and his eyes dart to the newcomer, narrowing in confusion. 

”General Kenobi,” Rex clears his throat. ”Been a long time. You lost weight. Why don't I let you down from there so you can give me a hand with these guys?"  
  
-

The evening is still warm and velvety when the family of three venture outside. Orange sunlight falls on the riverbanks and a pleasant wind blows through their light clothes. Hand in hand, they pad down to the riverside. There, Padmé crouches down to help her wobbly toddlers dip their toes into the shallow water. 

”Is the water alright?” she inquires, holding on to both of her children's hands. ”Is it cold?” 

”Cold,” announces Luke, stepping back. 

”Warm,” assures Leia, leaping in. 

Having had his fill, Luke wades back to the shore. Padmé chuckles, shifting to support Leia with both hands. She is regularly amazed by just how different her children are, and their playtime preferences are no exception. While her daughter is more of a doer, her son tends to favor make-believe and play acting. She catches herself wondering who takes after whom in that regard. How many times does she have to ban herself from indulging in such musings?

_This is all there is,_ she reminds herself, watching Leia splash around in the water, feeling Luke snuggle up against her side. _This is all there needs to be. _

”Mommy?” Luke whispers. 

”Yes, sweetie?”

”Will come back?”

”What?”

”Will come back here?”

Padmé twists around to look her funny little boy in the eye. ”Sweetheart, we're already here.” 

She never meets his eye. Both he and his sister are looking straight past her and across the field opening behind them. Padmé spins around to see what has drawn their interest. She squints her eyes against the sun, and feels her breath hitch in her throat. 

Across the orange-painted field, a dark figure is approaching. While her eyes still struggle against the burning glare, in her heart, there isn't a moment of uncertainty. That defined outline and lithe silhouette. Those long strides. That distinctive gait, light-footed yet bearing the weight of the world. 

Instinctively, she reaches to pull Leia from the water, only to notice Luke has wandered halfway across the distance between them and the approaching silhouette. She calls after her son, but the only thing that gets past her lips is a muffled gasp of breath. 

Even as Leia nestles close to her mother's chest, her eyes stay glued to the newcomer. When Padmé's feet finally catch up with her internal urgency, he's already reached the edge of the field. He stands there across from Luke, gazing down into his curious eyes. 

Luke turns uncertainly towards his mother. ”Mommy, who…?” 

”Why don't you tell him?” the taller figure challenges. ”Why don't you tell them who I am?”

The details of his features are obscured as the dazzling sun blinds her eyes. ”Who?” she hears Luke repeat. In the corner of her eye, curled up to her shoulder, she sees her daughter, awaiting the answer with equal anxiety. 

”Luke, Leia,” she hears herself say, as though hovering outside of her own body. ”This is your father.” 

Shielding her eyes against the sun, Padmé raises them, only to find the dark silhouette looking away from her. Vaguely, she is aware of a low droning noise coming from the direction that he's facing. Steadily, it grows closer and finally gains a large, angular shape. Luke and Leia gasp with delight as a massive Imperial starship sweeps over them, splitting the golden sky and receding far into the clouds and away from view. 


	12. Complex Victim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> probably needless to say, but the anidala/vaderdala relationship as depicted at this stage of the story will not exactly be… very healthy or fluffy (it gets better). 
> 
> while there will not be any physical violence (between them), do buckle up for some uncomfortable power dynamics, intimidation, possessive behavior and just a generally unsafe environment. these all apply to/affect the twins, too, by extension, so… you know. 
> 
> why is every author's note a new warning in this fic lol

Luke and Leia are perfect miracles. Everything about them, every last detail, is sublime. Their little hands; their large, innocent eyes. Their funny toddler words and their wobbly toddler walks. The way they snuffle when they sleep; the way they do right now, tucked in their little beds, dreaming of simple, child-like things. 

Padmé is as beautiful as ever. Perhaps more beautiful than ever, without her layers of senatorial regalia and picture-perfect make-up; her long hair falling in waves down her back and framing her natural, lovely features. In another life, Vader once complimented her by saying she had not changed at all. But he can tell, this Padmé _has_ changed. It shows in the set of her jaw, the posture of her spine, the look in her eyes. The fire that always burned within her is still there, but it is as though the flames have changed color, or grown thorns or teeth. 

These are passing thoughts that whirl though Vader's mind as he lets his eyes wander around the darkened cabin, the home of his runaway family of two years. Thoughts that flit through his head but never quite reach his heart or understanding. He wants to grab them in fistfuls and study them closer, to catch them like butterflies and nail them to his wall for later inspection and admiration. But they flutter away from him and leave only resentment and emptiness behind.

Leaving the twins to sleep in their waterborne cradle, Padmé leads her husband outside, reaching to shut the door behind her. Night has fallen over the planet in a heavy blue blanket. A light nocturnal breeze blows over the waters and fields. Above them, stars twinkle silver and distant. 

”Just…” Padmé's long hems graze at Vader's boots as they dance in the wind. She presses her hands together pleadingly. ”Try to understand. We have a life here, Anakin. A good life. Is this really what you want for us, for your family? To turn us over to the Empire?”

”I'm not turning you over to the Empire,” Vader snaps. Hearing the aggression in his tone, he takes a moment to school his voice into composure. He is not used to speaking in normal, conversational tones. ”You're coming to live with me.” 

”So what does that mean?”

Vader shrugs, throwing a sideways glance in the houseboat's direction. ”A more comfortable residence.”

”We're fine here, thank you,” Padmé mutters. Her eyes scan the darkness before whipping back to him. ”Why do _you_ have to go back? Your own men betrayed you. They stole your ship and left you here. Maybe you should take a hint.”

Vader scowls down at her. He already reported the unforeseen development to his Master and received an oddly subdued reaction. Calm tones crackling through the hologram, Sidious had simply informed his apprentice that an extraction transport would be dispatched at the earliest opportunity. Vader dreads what lies in store for him when he gets back. His Master never lets his wrath simmer like this unless he already has a particularly cruel and creative punishment in mind. 

And still, that's not the worst part, and neither is the loss of his ship or his men. Obi-Wan slipping away was only to be expected. The worst part is that it had to be today. He just wanted one day without distractions, one day for himself. One day to share with his family. Whatever ill feeling he may have still harbored towards Padmé, he was prepared to put aside for the sake of a harmonious reunion, an offer of peace, a fresh start. But nothing's going the way it should and he's angry and he's distracted. 

”Talk to me, Anakin,” Padmé pulls him to the present. ”What happened to you?” She motions towards the houseboat while her other hand rests on her heart, ”You could have had all of this… a long time ago. Why did you –” 

”You ran off with Obi-Wan!” Vader barks in her face, discarding his rose-colored versions of this conversation once and for all. He revels in the anger that fills him, in its comforting familiarity that consumes him to his very core and lends him its explosive power. 

”You didn't show up for the birth of your children!” Padmé yells back. 

”You hid from me –”

”You chose _Palpatine_ over us!”

”He_ saved_ you, Padmé,” Vader gasps, his voice suddenly dropping to a chilly, matter-of-fact whisper. 

_”He?”_ Padmé echoes with utter incomprehension. ”Palpatine?”

”He saved you –” 

”_I_ saved me!” Padmé cries into the night. Vader opens his mouth for rebuttal, only to be left silent as he regards the delicate form of his wife, clenching her fists and heaving shuddering breaths and shaking with emotion. Her eyes shine with wild conviction. ”_Every day,_ I've been saving myself and saving my children! What have _you_ ever done for them? For _me?_” 

Vader stares at her, unable to stop himself from falling a step back when the weight of her words hits him. ”Well, you're about to see,” he grinds out through clenched teeth. 

”And if I don't want to?”

”For your own sake, you better start trying.” 

-

”I realize it sounds crazy. I mean… these chips in our heads that can just force us to do whatever someone wants, even turn against our allies and friends or commit mass murder. You probably think it's some fantasy that I've invented to cope with what I've done, that I'm just grasping at any excuse, any delusion… but I've never been so sure of anything in my life. Fives tried to warn us, about Palpatine, about everything. I know you weren't there, at the warehouse, but you must have learned about what happened… about what he said. It's all true. It's all true. He was telling the truth, and we didn't listen.” 

To his credit, Obi-Wan Kenobi has been listening to Rex for the better part of a half-hour. Nodding and frowning here and there, but not interrupting once. An enormous weight is lifted off Rex's chest as he finishes his recount, but even then, a strange nausea seems to settle in its place. He's putting everything on the line. The future looms ahead, uncertain and daunting. He searches the former Jedi's face, trying to gauge any reaction that might be hiding behind the mask of calm. 

Moment after moment passes in silence, broken only by the steady hum of the engines. Nervously, Rex's gaze drifts through the cockpit. At present, _The Tenebrae_ is bound for an unnamed dark moon on edges of the Outer Rim. Rex has disabled the ship's tracker, putting them out of immediate risk of being detected. The fuel tanks and most of their other supplies will last them weeks if needed.

Warily, Rex turns back to Kenobi, who still seems lost in thought. 

”I know… it's a lot to digest,” he prompts. 

Kenobi's head snaps up as he is pulled from his daze. Only now does he seem to become aware of the passage of time. ”Pardon me,” he says lightly, before his face sobers again. ”I… I do recall what happened with ARC trooper Fives.”

Rex cocks his head, surveying him. ”But you still don't believe me.” Kenobi opens his mouth, but Rex hastens to admit, ”I understand. I'd be skeptical, too.” His tone hardens when he continues, ”But I hope we can move on from that phase… PDQ. Because the truth is, I didn't just rescue you from the Empire's clutches out of the goodness of my heart. I did it because I need your help.” He averts his gaze for a moment, as though exchanging looks of solidarity with an invisible comrade. ”_We_ need your help.” 

If the last silence felt heavy, this one is brutal. Kenobi shifts in his seat, scratches at his beard, gives Rex vague looks with unseeing eyes. Finally, his lips part, remaining frozen for another moment before starting to form words. 

”So what you're saying is that… these chips that you have inside your heads… they have the power to compel you to obey any master. Any… any order. Even make you turn against your friends and allies,” Kenobi snaps his fingers, ”just like that.” 

”Yes, that's right,” Rex confirms, a mild impatience driving his words. ”When it happens, you enter a sort of a trance. You… you're not yourself.”

Kenobi holds his gaze for a long time, his weathered features locked into a perturbed frown. At length, he stands up from his seat, rubbing his temples with both hands. Rex begins to wonder if the poor man is quite alright. Vader's interrogation techniques have been known to take their toll even on the mentally strong. 

”General?” he tries.

The silence seems to stretch on to infinity, or at least to a point where Rex is reasonably sure Kenobi has either swallowed his tongue or is practicing some kind of monastic vow. His hair falls in dangling clumps over his hands as he keeps on ruffling it back. Beads of sweat form on his forehead and he wipes them off with rough, anxious motions. After a while, he sits back down and looks up at Rex. His expression has shifted from evident distress to chilling composure. 

”Is it possible…” he begins before pinching his lips together again. Then, in the most uncertain of voices, he whispers, ”…that they put one of those chips in Anakin's head as well?”

Rex stares at him, nonplussed. For a few particularly confusing seconds, he has trouble connecting the name 'Anakin' to a person. Then it hits him like lightning and his mouth falls wide open. 

”…What?” 

”Think about it,” Kenobi proposes, his voice thin. ”It makes perfect sense. Anakin –” 

”Do you _need_ him to have a chip?” 

Kenobi's brows knit together. ”What do you mean?”

”Is that what this is?” Rex presses on, a sudden, wild resentment rising within him. His shoulders shake with dry laughter. ”Are we clones not good enough for you? Is _our_ plight not enough for you? You _have_ to make him a victim, too.”

”Rex –” 

”He's still your precious Padawan, isn't he? 'Anakin.' Not Vader. Vader, who betrayed the Jedi and betrayed you and did it all of his own free will. Who kept us enslaved and treated us like dirt –”

”Rex, that's not what I –”

”But it's the first thing that popped into your head.” 

”That's because –” Kenobi stammers, once again re-arranging his disheveled mop of hair. ”Well, when you described the chip's properties –”

”Yeah, you know, it's a great philosophical question,” Rex sneers. ”Are any of us in control of our actions, really?”

”Rex, enough,” Kenobi pleads. ”I'm sorry.” 

Rex throws him an almost pitying look before flopping back on his seat, exhausted. Vague feelings of bitterness and frustration swirl through him as he pinches his eyes shut, fingers kneading at the bridge of his nose. This time, Kenobi's silence is more than welcome. Though nothing so pleasant to listen to that he doesn't grow tired of it after a few awkward minutes. 

”I'm going to go see my brothers now,” Rex announces, circling around his seat to make towards the blast door. ”Maybe try and explain.”

-

The extraction transport arrives in the dead of night, its durasteel legs clutching onto the lush ground like a predator on the neck of its prey. A new wave of dread washes over Padmé. While the reunion with her estranged husband had not exactly been amicable, at least until now they'd been able to keep up this strange pretense of being like any other married couple, squabbling into the small hours over their differing aspirations in life. The arrival of the ship breaks that illusion once and for all. She and her children are now prisoners of the Empire, detained by Darth Vader himself, grabbed from their beds and escorted on board by armed soldiers. Hand in hand with her mother, Leia totters up the ramp groggily. Luke is so tired that he bursts into tears and refuses to move until Padmé picks him up and lets him sniffle against her shoulder. 

Her final glimpse of their first family home consists of stormtroopers milling in and out of the houseboat with the occasional assortment of clothes and other essential items piled in their arms. With a creeping hopelessness, she thinks about tomorrow morning. Moteé finding an empty home, her students discovering that today's quiz is cancelled. She pictures Kasendra stepping forth from the back of the classroom and explaining to them what has happened and why. 

Inside the ship, the stormtroopers disperse from their sides, leaving Vader to lead them through the medium-sized transport to finally usher them through a door. Furnished with three bunks with stark white sheets and a small conservator at the corner, the compact cabin is on the nicer side of prison cells. 

Instead of locking them inside and leaving, Vader sticks around. Settling into a seat by the doorway, he watches silently as Padmé tucks her little ones into their pristine beds and kisses them goodnight. Leia goes out like a light, while Luke tosses and turns and rubs his dampened eyes for another few minutes before drifting off. Sitting down on her own bunk, Padmé finds herself so profoundly exhausted that she condescends to ask her husband to turn down the light. Vader rises a languid hand and the lights go dim. 

”You know,” Padmé whispers after a while. ”Obi-Wan was the one who brought us to Derra. And before he left, he told me to quit this place while I still could. He said that if he were to be captured…” She gasps as a horrible realization seizes her. ”Is he… is Obi-Wan…?” 

”Not anymore,” Vader mutters. 

”Wait,” she realizes, ”he was on that ship, wasn't he?”

”That is correct.” 

Padmé can't stop a gleeful smirk from spreading across her lips as she digests this new information. The slippery old fox. Her smile quickly fades as she remembers what she was trying to say. She weighs her words for a while before letting them pour out. ”I've been asking myself over and over why I didn't take his advice. Why I never left. Why the constant threat of the Empire never really… scared me.” She exchanges tense looks with Anakin. ”And I think… maybe it was because… I thought that surely, between us and the Empire, there would still be _you._ That surely… _you_ would be the one to find me. What I'm saying is that… maybe some… twisted part of me _wanted_ to be found. Wanted to leave a trail of breadcrumbs for you… to lead you home.”

Anakin's gaze burns through the dimness of the room, boring into her own. Padmé purses her lips, folding her hands on her lap. Then she bursts out, ”I don't care what happens to me. But please… promise me you will protect your children from the Emperor. They both have their father's talents and that scares me to death. For two years you have been doing that monster's bidding and I'm asking you to draw the line here. I will die before letting Palpatine lay a hand on them and I expect that's exactly what will happen. That only leaves you as their sole protector.” 

Anakin surges up from his seat. ”Padmé!” he cries, only for his wife to shush him in response. For another fleeting moment, they are like any pair of parents, heads whipping in the smaller bunks' direction. Luke twitches and turns his back, but doesn't stir. Leia frowns, opens one eye and dozes right back off. 

To his credit, Vader lowers his voice. ”That's… that's not going to happen.”

Padmé tilts her head, unimpressed. ”Which part?”

She is met with an abrupt wall of silence. Vader just stands there, scowling down at her, simultaneously the most frightful creature and the most pitiable thing she has ever seen. Padmé lets out an incredulous noise. 

”Consider me reassured,” she scoffs, before swinging her legs over the side of her bunk, assuming a horizontal position and throwing the blanket over her ear. 

She hears receding footfalls before the room goes pitch-black and the lock clicks shut. 

-

Obi-Wan snaps awake from a restless dream when the swoosh of the blast door signals Rex's return to the cockpit. They say Jedi don't have nightmares, but what he saw was too distressing to be a pleasant dream. At the same time, it had a strange, alluring quality that bad dreams rarely possess. It was too alien to be a memory and too familiar to be his mind's invention. And by the time his eyes flutter open, he remembers none of it.

”Well?” he inquires from Rex, who takes a seat beside him. ”How are our captives faring?”

”Confused,” Rex shrugs. ”A little bit pissed off. I don't blame them.” 

”Did you tell them? Do they believe you?”

Rex slowly bobs his head. ”I think a couple of them do, yes.”

For whatever reason, the former clone captain doesn't seem all that reassured. A rush of new compassion fills Obi-Wan as he regards his companion's slumped form. Still, it takes a few moments until that compassion solidifies into determination and finally into words.

”I am sorry about before,” Obi-Wan tells Rex, who raises his head. ”I believe you, too. And I do want to help you. And I think… I think I may have an idea.”

Rex's eyes widen with hope and his entire appearance lights up. ”Are you serious?”

Obi-Wan nods. ”I have connections to Alderaan. Friends… friends on Alderaan. Alderaan is among the wealthiest of Core Worlds, and they possess extremely advanced medical technology. My friends will be able to enlist the services of top professionals in the field. I have no doubt that they'll be able to detect and remove the biochips from your heads. How's that for a start?” 

”General,” Rex sighs, gratitude shining in his eyes. ”I… I don't know what to say. Thank you.” 

Obi-Wan smiles, swiveling in his seat. ”I guess we'd better change course, then.” He taps at the ship's computer until it winks to life, but doesn't get farther than that before Rex leans towards him, a peculiar look on his face. 

”I…” he begins uncertainly. ”Before we departed for Colstev from the space station where we were posted… I… I saw something. Something that concerns Vader.” 

Obi-Wan frowns. ”Oh?”

”He had a health check-up on that day,” Rex explains. ”Just before the briefing. His physician… was a Kaminoan. And when I saw him, I… I just got the strangest feeling. Something about the way he was dressed… the way he _smelled_… felt so… familiar. I can't put my finger on it, but it reminded me of… the lab where I spent my formative years.” 

Obi-Wan's heartbeat has steadily quickened while he's been listening. Rex's eyes flick between his own and an invisible spot in the air as he appears to think hard and earnestly. ”He… he warned him about dizziness,” he finally recalls.

Obi-Wan feels a cold stone drop in his stomach. ”Oh… oh Force.” 


	13. Room with a View

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now that I've given you pitiful crumbs of hope,,,,,
> 
> chapter contains torture/humiliation similar to chapter 6. simultaneously not as bad and kind of worse?

”Mommy, where are we?”

Padmé has no idea how to answer her son's innocent question. Even if she knew where they were, even if she could give him the exact coordinates of where their transitory prison has landed as of a few minutes ago, she has no words to explain the situation. No words to explain to her child that the normal course of their lives has been cruelly disrupted, that they have been taken captive by two of the most dangerous men in the Galaxy and exist in an inescapable state of looming danger and uncertainty. No words of comfort to offer when the two-and-a-half-year-old clearly perceives the distress in his mother's eyes and makes a point of not asking again. 

Padmé has to will her hands not to shake as she smoothes the front of Luke's shirt and starts to button it up. She wishes Anakin were here. Oh, how she wishes Anakin were here. When Vader appears in the doorway, she feels like one of those naive protagonists in olden Nabooian fables; having her wish come true, but not in the way she desired. He stands there menacingly, long shadow falling over the room as he runs his eye over its occupants. Then, with a harsh nod in the corridor's direction, he informs them, ”My Master awaits.” 

Her hands only stop shaking when fear threatens to freeze her fingers stiff. She struggles to slip the last button through its designated hole before scrambling to her feet and scooping Luke in her arms. Leia glowers suspiciously at the newcomer as she scurries over to join them. 

Vader makes to lead the way, a handful of stormtroopers remaining by the door and getting ready to follow behind the captives. At that moment, a terrible, desperate idea grips ahold of Padmé and she shouts after her husband, ”Anakin, would you like to hold your children?”

-

The hangar area of the DSC-2 space station opens wide and airy before them as the family of four make their way down the ramp along with their armed escort. The sight of Sidious awaiting below has Vader's stomach churning. But looking into the curious eyes of his son, feeling the comforting weight of his children pressing against either side his chest, he suddenly feels less afraid and alone. Before they step down from the ramp, he meets Leia's eye as well. Where her brother exudes curiosity and wonder, she regards her father with distrust and vague hostility. And yet, looking at the little girl, he feels nothing but pure joy. Instinctively, his gaze next swivels toward Padmé, in hopes of sharing this moment of sheer felicity in maybe just a glance or a smile. But his wife's eye does not stray from the dark lord of the Sith shuffling to meet them at the base of the ramp. 

”Padmé Amidala, radiant as always,” Sidious greets the former Senator as the group skids to a halt before him. ”And these fine young people would be,” Vader manages a half-bow as his Master turns to inspect the children in his arms, ”Luke and –”

It all happens in mere nanoseconds. Almost too quick for the naked eye to register, Vader just catches his wife's hand shoving forward and seizing a blaster from a distracted stormtrooper. She levels it at Sidious and fires – and misses the target by several inches. Redirected by the dark lord's superhuman reflexes, the bolt hits the wall almost simultaneously as the weapon is pulled from Padmé's grip and drawn to Sidious' palm with a dull thwack. Around her, blasters click into readiness and train their barrels at her head. Vader stands frozen and useless as his children cry out and bury their heads in his robes, terrified. 

”Or should I say,” Sidious drawls as he considers his would-be assassin, ”_feisty_ as always?” He lets out a breathy cackle as he circles her seething form. 

”You will not – you will not touch –” she snarls between clipped breaths as a pair of troopers proceed to seize her elbows at Sidious' signal. 

”Please escort my esteemed guest to her quarters,” the Sith Lord commands. ”With a view, like we discussed.”

The twins are sobbing freely into Vader's tunics as their mother is dragged away and shoved into an turbolift. ”Promise me! Promise me you will protect them!” she begs her husband, her pleas still piercing through the transparisteel even after the doors snap closed and only disappearing as the lift shoots up. Vader looks to his Master desperately as his collar is tugged and yanked by little hands and the front of his tunic continues to dampen with tears. Out of some new and foreign instinct, his arms wrap tighter around his precious load and he starts to softly rock his children back and forth. 

His Master's eyes linger on the sight for a moment before flicking up to Vader. His voice is thick with something akin to disapproval. ”I was hoping we might have a talk… _alone._” 

”Yes… Master." The twins are quieting down now, Luke wiping a sniffling nose on his sleeve. 

At Sidious' command, another pair of stormtroopers step forth, their arms thrust forward. ”Well?” the Sith Lord questions, shooting his apprentice a significant look. ”What are you waiting for?” 

Vader takes a half-step back. His lip wobbles with wordless hesitation, eyes darting between his Master and the expectant troopers. 

”Vader, hand them over,” Sidious growls. 

His feet seem to move of their own accord, his arms stretch forward without his permission. Leia kicks and wriggles as she is passed off to a faceless trooper like a delicate pack of explosives, Luke has gone stiff and silent and seems too shocked to react. 

Vader watches helplessly as his children are carried away and whisked onto a second elevator, their little heads bouncing over the troopers' shoulders. His eyes trail after them until they disappear from view, leaving a sudden, crushing dread in their wake. 

”Will they be…” Vader sputters, head bowed as he approaches his Master. ”Will they be sa –”

A dull blow to the back of his neck sends him doubled over and gasping for breath. Sidious nods lazily and the back of the blaster lands hard on his neck again.

-

Having spent relatively little time on DSC-2, Vader is unfamiliar with many of the facilities. He knows that the fifth floor holds the prison block, but that is about the extent of his knowledge. Door after door sweeps past as his Master leads him through an empty hallway, to finally usher him into a room with a floor-to-ceiling mirror on one wall. The rest of the furniture consists of what Vader strongly suspects are torture devices and their scattered components. 

He doesn't wait for his Master's command before dropping to his knees. Sidious hovers over him, the black hems of his robes swinging across the limited range of his vision.

”Explain yourself.” 

Vader swallows, a shiver running across his spine as the musty cold of the room seeps under his clothing and settles on his skin. ”CT-7567,” he chokes out, his voice reverberating hollowly off the walls. 

”Yes… what about your second-in-command?” 

”I suspect he was the mastermind behind the mutiny. I… I sensed something off about his Force signature before we departed for Colstev. I don't think it was spur-of-the-moment… I think he may have been harboring treacherous intent for some time and he seized an opportunity to extract a powerful ally.” 

Black fabric shifts in front of him, Vader's head sinking lower under his Master's scrutiny. ”You suspected CT-7567 of harboring 'treacherous intent'… and you did nothing?”

”No, I…” Vader hesitates. He doesn't know how to explain without making it seem like he's trying to evade responsibility. But the fact of the matter is, the vague unease that he would feel around CT-7567 never had a chance to develop into outright suspicion, because such an exercise seemed like a waste of his time. Because the new Empire protocol encourages a positive indifference towards the clones. ”… Yes, Master," he hears himself sputtering.

”I don't believe you.”

Vader tilts up his chin. ”What?” 

”A clone trooper?” Sidious sneers from above him. ”'Mastermind'? Please. This is Kenobi, a known weakness of yours. Once again you let him slip through your fingers, and you thought I wouldn't spot a pattern?”

”_No,_ Master, I –”

”What was that?”

”N-no –”

”Yes, that word.” The Sith Lord tuts his tongue against the roof of his mouth. ”Get undressed.” 

Vader suppresses a sigh, or perhaps a further protest as he starts to pull off his boots. It's not the first or even the fifth time that he's been made to perform this exercise, and he's perfectly familiar with the point it's intended to make, the lesson it's meant to teach. Still, it is for that exact reason that he goes through the motions, discards garment after garment until only cold air touches his skin. Then, Sidious has him walk across the room and stand in front of the large mirror. 

Vader's gaze doesn't linger on the somber eyes staring back at him, dyed gold by the awesome powers residing within. Nor does it roam over his lean and muscular physique that a lesser man might have taken the opportunity to admire. He barely glances at most of the scars that decorate his bared skin, which passing years and regular bacta baths have turned into thin, barely-there lines. All except one. 

Slashed across his chest, nine aurebesh letters still burn red and sore and smarting, as though freshly carved. 

”I ask you once again,” the dark figure behind him whispers, ”what did you just say?” 

Vader bows his head. ”Yes, Master.”

”Yes, Master – _what?_”

”Yes, Master… I let Kenobi go.”

Sidious licks his lips, circling the exposed form of his apprentice. ”I instructed you to keep him alive until such time that your family was secured, because I was looking out for your best interests. And you thought you could exploit that loophole?” 

”…Yes, Master.”

On the mirror's reflective surface, Vader sees his Master's lips curl into a smirk. ”Well, tell me, my rebellious student. Is Kenobi worth it? Being separated from your family, because we have to waste time on this inane discussion?”

”…No, Master.” 

”Good, you're learning how to use that word. Well, Lord Vader, answer me one final question.” He stops pacing, halting within inches of his apprentice. Craning his wizened neck, he then reaches up to whisper in Vader's ear, ”Do you think you've been punished enough?”

It's a trick question if there ever was one. But unlike most trick questions, this one absolutely has a right answer.

”No, Master.”

-

Through the long hallways of the prison block, Vader forces himself to take one step after another. Even stripped of his clothing and his dignity, he still has some semblance of pride to hold on to, tilting up his chin and scowling at no one in particular. In the corner of his eye, he catches the occasional glance. No one dares to stare. 

Reaching the cell unit at the very middle, he stops short of where an expectant stormtrooper stands guard. It is then that his head drops, his uncovered features and naked body suddenly feeling that much more exposed when planted opposite a faceless helmet and full armor. 

His jaw tightens with seething shame as he begins to recite, ”I am being punished by Lord Sidious. I am to be detained in this cell until Lord Sidious orders otherwise, denied sustenance until Lord Sidious orders otherwise, and, most importantly… I am not to be allowed to see any of my family members nor be given any reports regarding their safety or their treatment… until Lord Sidious orders otherwise.” He looks up and into the black tint of the stormtrooper's eyeshield. ”And so, by his authority, I command you to lock me in this cell and make sure that these conditions are met to the letter.” 

”Yes, Lord Vader.”

The door to the cell hisses open and Vader walks in, resigned to what he surely must deserve. 

-

The security feed winks out, and a smug smirk pulls at Sidious' lips as he turns to face its sparse audience. ”_This_ is the man you expect to protect your children? To save the day and whisk you away to a beautiful sunset?"

All pretenses of bravado gone, Padmé Amidala visibly trembles as her eyes continue to stare unseeingly at the blank screen. 

”What have you done to him?” 


	14. Once a Slave

At night, Anakin saw him again. The boy with choppy dark hair and sun-painted skin. Out in the desert, doubled over in exhaustion as the merciless heat bore down on him. Leaning against his knees and panting. Thirst parching his throat and second thoughts creeping to the back of his mind. With nowhere to go and nothing to return to. With no plan, no money and no friends. No one to keep him company but the ghosts of what he'd left behind. 

Anakin tossed and turned, knowing what was coming and powerless to stop it. He saw the boy trudging on, hot sand scorching the soles of his feet. He saw the beads of sweat trickling down his forehead and getting in his eyes. He saw the gash that ran down his forearm, hastily stitched together and showing signs of budding infection. And he saw the little smile that quirked up the boy's lips as he held up the arm and regarded it with pride, drew strength from the newfound freedom it represented. Deciding that whatever demise he met now would still be worth a thousand lifetimes in bondage.

Then it happened.

Anakin jumped awake, gasping and screeching in fright. The residual horror from the nightmare remained with him for long after reality set in. The lingering images and smells and voices had him shaking and hyperventilating and swallowing back bitter sobs. The shapes in the pitch-black room around him seemed warped and alien as he gazed around unseeingly. It only seemed to take on its familiar, homely shape when his mother's silhouette appeared in the doorway. Seeing her son, she rushed across the room and knelt at his bedside. 

”Sh, sh, sh,” Shmi hushed him, a comforting hand landing atop his head to stroke back his sweaty hair. ”It's alright. You're safe. It was only a dream.” 

Panting, Anakin turned to face her, desperately drank in every detail of her soothing features. ”But it wasn't just a dream,” he rasped. ”I keep seeing him, Mom. I keep seeing him.”

Shmi frowned. Anakin was expecting her to inquire _who_ – but she didn't. Somehow, she just knew. As she so very often did.

Bruni Michos was a human boy six years Anakin's senior. He and his younger sister Deliin were slaves to Pro Varice, a local businessman and close associate of the Hutts. Bruni and his _stoopa_ friends used to bully Anakin all the time, pushing him and breaking his stuff and calling him mama's boy. But then, some time ago, Anakin and Bruni had come to a truce. At the time, Varice was punishing Bruni for some mistake by denying him food. While out at Mos Espa hunting for some freebies, the fourteen-year-old had somehow acquired an expensive, Coreallian-made vibroblade instead. So the two boys had struck a bargain: three weeks' meals for the fancy knife. 

The reason Anakin wanted the vibroblade was because he had recently made a major discovery. For as long as he could remember – well, at least as long as he could remember being a slave, and understanding what it meant – he'd been working on a scanning device capable of detecting the minuscule biochips that all Tatooine slaves were implanted with. Not only did the chips serve as trackers, but they also had a tiny bomb inside, for further insurance and intimidation. If the slave ever tried to escape, if they so much as set foot outside the designated area – _boom. _

Anakin had been so sure he'd finally had a working prototype in his hands. When he'd done a test run of the device by pointing it at his right arm, it had beeped. Anakin really, really liked his arm, but he'd decided he liked the idea of freedom just a little bit more. So what's a boy to do? Cut the limb clean off, of course. 

Eventually it had transpired that the scanner could only produce highly imprecise readings, that it would just go _beep beep_ within a near two-meter radius of any of the key components found in the biochip. At first, Anakin had been deeply upset by this discovery, but he had to admit – he did really, _really_ like his right arm. And maybe the whole spontaneous, not-entirely-sterile amputation thing had not been among his brightest ideas. 

His mother had then suggested that they sell the vibroblade and use the money to buy food for Bruni and his sister. Anakin had agreed, and as a result, something amazing and unexpected had happened: Anakin and Bruni had become friends. Such good friends, in fact, that they started to share secrets. And then, one day, Anakin had shared with him his biggest secret of all: the prototype scanner. He'd told Bruni many times that it was still a prototype and that it didn't really work like it was supposed to, that it was inaccurate and that Anakin had no idea how to make it not so. 

But just for fun (or maybe, not so much for fun as to remind himself that the scanner wasn't a _complete_ dud… or maybe, just maybe, to try to impress the older boy a tiny bit), Anakin had let Bruni try the scanner on his body. Predictably enough, Bruni had tried it on his arm first. _Beep beep beep,_ it had wailed. And then the same thing happened when he'd pointed it at his leg, and his chest, and his head…_ beep beep beep beep._ Anakin had stood there, more than a little embarrassed, thinking that maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all. Why would he even want to show Bruni this worthless piece of poodoo, why… 

But for some reason, Bruni had been really impressed by Anakin's work, to the point that he'd acted a little weird about it. After he'd gone home, Anakin had not seen him for a few days. 

The next time he'd seen him, the older boy had sported a bloodied bandage on his forearm. He'd seemed extremely hot and bothered and had kept looking over his shoulder. He'd pulled Anakin into a grimy alley and kept on hushing him. 

”I…” Bruni had said, his voice a low, conspiratorial hiss. ”I really shouldn't be here, but… it didn't feel right leaving without… I don't really know what to say, except thank you.”

Anakin's gaze had zeroed in on the bandage on his arm, the middle section dyed deep brown with dried blood. ”Bruni… you didn't,” Anakin had shaken his head, trying to make sense of what he was seeing and hearing, ”I mean, the scanner… I told you. It doesn't work.” 

”I know it doesn't,” Bruni had hurried to assure him. His head whipped back and forth as he kept on glancing to the bustling street behind him. ”But I just… I don't know. When you showed it to me, I… I had this flashback, this… half-memory of sorts. I can't explain it, but…” The restlessness that dominated his presence was then penetrated by a flash of wild joy, a broad grin stretching across the older boy's face. ”Suddenly I just knew,” he said, tapping two fingers against the bandage, ”I knew it was in my arm. And I… I carved it out. I'm free, Anakin. I'm finally free.” 

Anakin had stared at him, stunned. ”Wow… Bruni… um, congratulations.” He didn't know what else to say. It seemed so unbelievable, he didn't really know how to feel either envious or happy for his friend. 

”I have to go,” Bruni hissed, his cheer melting away and nervousness once again taking its place, ”I really have to go. But I just wanted to – thanks. And your mom, tell her thanks for me.” With that, he'd spun around and launched into a sprint.

”Bruni!” Anakin called after him as a horrible thought occurred to him, all of a sudden. Bruni jerked to a stop and spun around. ”What about… what about Deliin?”

For his age, Anakin was fairly emotionally intelligent and good at reading people's faces. But on that day, at the back of the alleyway, he almost didn't recognize the guilt and shame written across Bruni's face, because he had never seen the same intensity of guilt and shame on anyone's face before. The way his features contorted was more reminiscent of anger… hatred even. 

Then, without a word of answer, Bruni had turned his back and disappeared. 

The word got around pretty fast in the Mos Espa slave community. The boy of fourteen who had ran off into the desert and gotten himself blown up. Numbing shock hit Anakin like a falling rock when the news reached him, the depth of his devastation only rivaled by that of his disbelief: Bruni had removed his chip. Even if it seemed unbelievable, Anakin couldn't imagine him being mistaken about that. 

Eventually it came to light that the boy had indeed located and successfully removed the biochip he'd been implanted with when he was first sold into slavery. That was not what had killed him. What had killed him was the bomb that had been inserted into his body when Varice had bought him from his previous owner. Rather than surgically remove his first chip, it had simply been deactivated once the new implant had been placed. 

”It wasn't your fault,” Shmi comforted her son, running her knuckles down his cheek. ”You couldn't have known. No one could have known.”

”But I could have stopped him,” Anakin croaked. There was a familiar, stinging pressure building behind his eyes, but he bit down on his lip and willed the wetness away. ”I should have stopped him. He abandoned his own _sister!_ I should have convinced him to stay, and –” 

Shmi shook her head, ”His mind was made up. Ani, you have to stop.” 

Anakin was silent, studying the threadbare seamwork that ran along the edges of his frayed blanket. ”He thought he was free. He really thought he was free. He must have wanted it… so badly.” His thoughts lingered in an uncomfortable place where equal parts of pity, grief, anger and understanding all intertwined in a confusing mixture. Sometimes he thought that he was too young to experience some of the emotions that ran amok in his heart. He was sure his mother would agree. It seemed like the kind of thing she would say. 

”I never want to want it so badly, Mom,” Anakin suddenly declared, head snapping up. ”Freedom. I never want to want it so badly that I'd leave you behind. Never.”

”Anakin…” Shmi gave a low chuckle that had a somewhat sad ring to it. She reached out with her arms, wrapping them around her son's small shoulders and pressing their foreheads together. But as Anakin lingered in that gentle embrace, it suddenly occurred to him that it wasn't just that particular laugh of hers that seemed sad. _She_ seemed sad. Or maybe, sad was too simple a word. She seemed at a loss. 

His mom, who always knew what to say, really seemed at a loss for words, this time. She had no words of comfort to offer. There was no bright side to this, nothing that could make the death – the _murder_ – of a fourteen-year-old less horrible or unfair. No words of reassurance, and no promises she could make, either. 

Even though she had already broken her own rule, once, of never promising him freedom, she stuck to it, this time. 

Or maybe she was just tired. Mothers were people too, after all. 

After a while they broke apart and met each other's eyes. Anakin flashed her a little smile, mostly to signal her that it was okay if she wanted to go back to bed.

Shmi planted a quick kiss on her son's forehead before throwing her night shawl around her shoulders and taking a few backward steps toward the doorway, eyes staying on him all the way. There was one final thing she said before bidding Anakin good night and sweet dreams, ”I miss him too, you know.” 

-

Vader wakes up shivering. Not from cold, although the prison cell he finds himself in is chilly and he isn't wearing anything apart from the hairs that stand erect on his skin. This shiver stems from anger. 

”Mom, I know it's you,” he hisses into the darkness, head buried in his hands. ”I don't know how you're doing this… sending me these… memories… but you need to stop. I don't know what you're trying to say. I'm not your innocent little boy anymore. The Anakin in those memories is just that, a memory. He doesn't exist anymore. And neither do you. So_ stop!_” His hoarse, anguished demand echoes off the dark walls. He clenches his teeth and sobs tearlessly into his hands. ”Anakin Skywalker and Darth Vader… have _nothing_ in common.”

But then, he thinks; the pitiful, shivering, naked creature that he's been reduced to has very little in common with Darth Vader, either. 


	15. Lock and Key

In the glaring empathy void that is the world of politics, Bail Organa is known as a voice of compassion and humanity, with a generous heart and an open mind. Still, the Alderaanian royal consort did not immediately warm to the idea that the clones, who had betrayed the Republic and shot the Jedi down and whom he was used to thinking of as nothing but cogs in Palpatine's war machine; were, in fact victims all along. And so, while he welcomed Obi-Wan to his palatial home with open arms, his hospitality to Rex only seemed to extend as far as tolerating his presence and side-eyeing him suspiciously. 

But they had explained, and then explained again. The war and the creation of the clone army and the ethical implications of breeding men for servitude and slaughter. The dubious origins of the cloning project. The conspiracy between Chancellor Palpatine and Count Dooku, their orchestration of the Clone War and the plot to destroy the Jedi. The death of General Tiplar. Fives. 

And as they explained, Organa's demeanor slowly began to change from wary to horrified. Critical disbelief turned to dismayed disbelief as he listened, and more than once, he drew a breath to interrupt, only to clamp his lips shut and keep listening. To some degree, Rex could guess at what he must be feeling. Even as an underdog himself, the resistance leader must have imagined he at least knew his enemy, only to have his eyes pried open to the ugly truth: he didn't. 

Rex knew. He'd been there. 

Once they finished explaining, the conversation that followed was short. And yet, even within this limited time, it proved more fruitful and effectual than the last twenty years' worth of political discourse in the Senate. 

”If what you're saying is true, this is a civil rights violation of the highest order,” Organa declared. 

”Technically, it's not,” Rex argued, ”seeing as we clones have never actually _had_ civil rights.”

Organa looked mortified. ”I mean… of course I will help you. It's the least I can do after what the Empire… after what the Republic has done to you.” 

”Senator Organa… thank you.”

The unwitting victims themselves needed a little more persuading. After already having to resort to extreme measures once, Rex did not want to force any of them into surgery without their explicit consent. Thankfully, most of them agreed to have their chips removed without much hassle. Upon learning about the true purpose of the chips and what really happened during the final hours of the Clone War, their reactions mostly ranged from subdued to shell-shocked. And Rex understood.The trauma and abuse that these men had endured was immeasurable, and it would be foolish to expect that the simple push of a button – or the removal of one – could in any way erase or heal it. Only time could do that. 

But already, the nine men seem to be well on their way to recovery. In his boundless generosity, Bail Organa has promised to provide them housing and low-profile employment (the latter with pay and laughably flexible workhours). Rex knows that none of them can truly find lasting peace or safety while Palpatine remains in power and the Empire's oppressive structures in place. But they are off to a very good start. 

Rarely in his short life has Rex felt the need to weep, but today, he might be tempted to shed tears of joy. 

”Sir, I… thank you.” 

Obi-Wan Kenobi twists around on the artistically curved metal bench on which he finds himself perching on one breezy afternoon. The palace gardens are abloom with new palomellas, flame lilies and lumba trees, and there is a sense of new spring's hope and promise floating in the crispy Alderaanian air. 

Kenobi smiles up at the newcomer. ”It's high time we retired 'sir', old friend.” 

The corners of Rex's lips curl up momentarily before straightening again, as heavy thoughts flood the forefront of his mind. He scratches the back of his neck. ”I… I feel like I may have asked too much of you, too fast. You never really got a chance to process it.” Kenobi looks up at him questioningly. Rex hesitates, dark shadows settling on the contours of his face. He releases a charged breath. ”We clones, we… we betrayed you. We turned our blasters on you and shot you down. Nothing will ever change that. Even if it wasn't really… us, you know. What I'm trying to say is… are you sure you're okay?” 

Kenobi nods somberly. ”I appreciate your concern,” he smiles. ”But I'm alright, Rex. What happened was… a tragedy beyond anything I could have ever imagined, but we Jedi are taught from a young age…” His eyes travel about the teeming garden as he searches for the words, stopping to admire a pair of fluttering blackbeaks that land on a nearby branch. ”…not to let our grief transform into… something else. Not to let it transform _us_ into something else.” 

The sigh that Rex releases is not without a trace of relief, but he still can't quite bring himself to look the former Jedi in the eye. His gaze trails after the birds as they soar away to the skies. ”That's… that's all well and good. Very… admirable. But I… I doubt you're ever going to receive an apology from those truly at fault, so…” 

”Rex… thank you.”

The clone ventures a step closer, hands clasped behind his back. ”…I also doubt that you have such… mastery over your feelings as far as Vader… as far as Anakin is concerned.” 

The shadows that fled from Rex's face now find residence on Obi-Wan's prematurely aged features. ”No, that's… that's different,” he mutters. He cards his hair back, staring vacantly ahead. ”I never came to terms with it, you know. What he did. What he became. But at least… I made the effort. I tried, I really did. And now I feel like… I have to start the process from the beginning.” The set of his jaw hardens, the hairs of his beard bristling. ”All the while knowing that I will never know rest until…” 

”Obi-Wan,” Rex begins tentatively. ”…Are you absolutely sure?”

Without so much as a beat of hesitation, Obi-Wan nods. ”Yes. I'm sure.” 

”Then I'm sure, too,” Rex decides. A sudden warmth rushes through him. Whatever pent-up bitterness he still harbors towards Vader shrinks before the rising hope that General Skywalker may be still in there, behind those baleful eyes. ”So, what's the plan?”

”We have to lure him out, somehow,” Obi-Wan mumbles, head resting on his palm. 

”We could probably use you as bait,” Rex proposes. 

”Yes… that's what I'm thinking, too.”

The pensive silence is cut off by a loud gasp and the sound of Rex's palm clapping against his forehead. His skin is suddenly clammy with sweat. ”I just… I just realized something. Something awful,” Rex splutters as a concerned Obi-Wan looks up at him. ”I was so focused on saving my brothers, that I… the mission to Derra. Vader's wife… and kids.” Rex knows he did what needed to be done, what no one else was willing to do. But the thought that in the process, he may have helped to deliver a defenseless young mother and her small children into the Empire's hands is not something that fills him with pride. 

”Oh,” Obi-Wan blinks up at him. ”There, I might at least ease your mind. I gave Vader the wrong planet when he interrogated me. He wouldn't have found them on Derra.”

”You did?” Rex's chest swells with relief. A sly smirk tugs up his lips when he adds, ”Ah, of course you did, you old bastard.” 

Rex is still shaking his head and letting out amused chortles as he starts walking away. _Good old Kenobi._ But just before he's out of earshot, his face sobers again. He whirls around to trade wistful looks with Obi-Wan. 

”I miss him too, you know."

There is a trace of rising determination in the smile that forms on Obi-Wan's face. ”Then let's bring him home.” 

-

Obi-Wan knows he has no right to be sure. He has barely earned the right to be delusional. Does he have any proof? No. What he has is a gut feeling and a selfish, desperate need for it to be the truth. 

_Do you need him to have a chip?_

_No. _

It is not that he needs the truth to be a specific chain of events. And it is not that he needs Anakin to be a powerless victim, to be absolved of all responsibility and vindicated of all the heinous crimes that, in the eyes of the Galaxy, will forever tarnish his name. If his years as a Jedi and an indeed, as a steadily aging man have taught him anything, it is that the truth is never easy. It is rarely the final piece of an otherwise perfect puzzle and never a smooth fit for the biased reality that exists inside one's head. It is not that convenient, imaginary truth that he longs to believe in. 

What he longs to believe is that there's still hope. Hope that the Anakin that he once knew and loved is not lost, that underneath the layers of darkness and corruption there still beats a vulnerable heart, the same heart that once held such an abundance of love and goodness. 

And it is that hope that gets Obi-Wan up in the morning and lulls him to sleep at night, and that hope that has persisted within him all these years, waiting to be sparked alive. 

”Goodness me,” Bail Organa sighs from across the table. The drawing room in which they sit is awash with light, flowing in from the open windows and catching on the details of the silver spoon stirring a cooling cup of caf. ”Quite a week I'm having. First the clones, and now Vader…” He rests his eyes on the swirling patterns forming on the foaming caf, tapping his spoon rhythmically against the rim of the cup. ”We've held meetings in this very room… discussing the clones in terms of numbers, and… and firepower. And Vader… at this point I must have cursed his name to more hells than there are in all the galactic religions together.” 

Obi-Wan draws a sympathetic breath, but Bail holds up a hand and shakes his head. ”I know what you're going to say. I couldn't have known. You didn't know. It's just… if there has to be one good thing, just one, to come out of this miserable affair, it's that I needed the reminder. To never forget that what we do is fight _for,_ not against.” He pauses, meeting Obi-Wan's eyes. ”There is already plenty of hatred… war… us versus them in this Galaxy. My fight is for a kinder… more forgiving world. A world where our sympathies may extend beyond those we are already sympathetic to.” He sets the spoon down to lie horizontally across the rim of the cup and just above the surface of the lukewarm liquid. ”Where we build bridges to those who would burn them down from underneath our feet. If no one is willing to take the first step… even at the risk of…” He flicks his fingers and the spoon topples, diving into the foam with a plash. 

”Nothing will ever change,” Obi-Wan supplies.

Bail nods. ”There are plenty of people who work for the Empire out of economic necessity, and others who have been subjected to other coercive measures. And still others who do so because that is the way things are now. This business with the clones and control chips… and Vader… is certainly extraordinary… but it just goes to show that none of us have walked a klick in our enemies' shoes.” 

A small smile plays on Obi-Wan's lips. Bail huffs out a laughter. ”You came to me for help, and I gave you a speech. I apologize.”

”You have already helped me and these men more than we can ever properly express our gratitude for.”

Bail waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. His brows knit together as he falls into a thoughtful silence. ”The truth is…” he begins after a while. ”I fear that the rebellion may be in trouble. We have barely gotten this party started, and I fear we may have already been exposed. Every day, I expect a squad of stormtroopers to bust through the front door and tackle me to that marble floor.” 

”What happened?” 

”We set up a new communication frequency about a month ago,” Bail explains. ”Supposedly extremely secure. A week in, we recognized that our signal was being picked up right at the heart of Coruscant. Now, the actual transmission that was caught wasn't…” An uncertain grimace tugs down his lips as he flaps his hand up and down. ”… necessarily incriminating. So, even after the incident we have kept the frequency up and running, and used it to relay non-critical coded messages disguised as Imperial data… in hopes of throwing the Empire off our scent. It's risky, but…” He spreads his arms in a theatrical shrug. ”Well, I'm still here. But I don't know for how long.” 

Obi-Wan's brow curls in a frown. ”What are you suggesting?” 

”I'm suggesting that it is likely that the Empire already suspect something, and have allowed us to keep roaming free for whatever insidious reasons of their own. But I fear I'm already a marked man, living on borrowed time. However…” Bail's voice perks up and a sly twinkle flashes in his eyes. ”It is unlikely that they know that_ we_ know… that_ they_ know,” the politician smirks at the awkward phrasing, ”and I'm suggesting we take advantage of that.” 

Obi-Wan quickly puts two and two together. ”You want me to contact you through the frequency… so that the transmission will be intercepted by the Empire… which will draw Vader to my location.” 

”And almost certainly get me arrested once and for all,” Bail adds, cool as a clamfruit. ”But there's no victory without sacrifice.”

Obi-Wan stares at him unblinkingly. ”Bail… no,” he says firmly. ”I cannot ask this of you.”

”Then it's a good thing you didn't,” Bail retorts. ”You have to understand, as much sympathy as I have for you… you and the person I once knew as General Skywalker… I am also thinking strategically. And I truly believe that Vader is the key to all this. Remove him from the equation, and the Empire's iron grip will start to blister.” He clasps his hands under his chin and gives Obi-Wan a meaningful look. ”Or perhaps, it would be more accurate to say that he is the _lock_… and _you_ are the key.”   
  
The former Jedi tilts his head. ”You truly believe that?” 

Bail nods. ”I do.”

Obi-Wan takes a moment to think. It is an ambitious plan, and one where the risks could certainly outweigh the rewards. It would mean sacrificing a steadfast ally and friend to an uncertain fate and and embracing scant odds of actual success. To say nothing of what, exactly, would constitute 'success'. It is not the first plan he's been a part of that involves apprehending the most dangerous man alive, but this has traditionally been the end goal, not step one. 

”Alright,” Obi-Wan finally sighs, standing up from his seat and offering his hand for a shake. Bail takes it and clasps it firmly. Their eyes lock in understanding. ”Thank you, my friend. And may the Force be with us.”

-

At first, Vader thinks he hallucinates it – the narrow sliver of light that cuts through the darkness and grows steadily wider across his clouded field of vision. His lids flap shut as the stinging light assaults his eyes and his arm shoots up to further shield them from the overwhelming brightness. Blue and yellow splotches dance across his retinas. Slowly, his eyes then flutter ajar and he peers through his fingers. He can just make out the silhouette of a stormtrooper that forms against the illuminated doorway. 

”Lord Vader,” the stormtrooper bows to the naked heap of flesh huddled against the corner of the cell. ”The Emperor has summoned you.” 

Vader's head spins with the strain of trying to process the words. Nausea climbs up his throat as he slowly becomes aware of his bodily presence in the cramped space and all the pains and discomforts that torment it. Supporting himself against the wall, he scrambles to his feet and scowls dully at the newcomer. 

”Lord Vader?”

Without a word, he then falls into a shaky step and staggers past the trooper into the hallway. 

-

From atop his inky throne, the Sith Master looks down on the diminished form of his student, crumpled into a kneeling position on the floor. His bare skin is covered in smears of grime and dirt and his curled locks hang in matted clumps over the back of his neck and sweep against the dimly reflective surface. Behind the throne, a panorama window opens to the vastness of space. From millions of lightyears away, thousands of stars gaze upon the Empire's magnificence, its power over the Galaxy and the Chosen One of the Force himself. 

”We just intercepted a very interesting transmission from a certain Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Sidious drawls. A slight twitch runs across Vader's spine. ”We traced the signal to the planet Gree.”

Sidious pushes himself up from his seat and takes a few steps across the dais that rises up from the floor. Spikes of dread and trepidation prick at Vader's skin as the Sith Master treads closer. 

”This is your last chance, Vader,” Sidious growls. ”You know what to do. Suffice it to say that should you fail…_ you_ will not be the one to bear the brunt of the consequences, this time.” 


	16. Save Me

Humans are remarkably adaptable creatures. It's extraordinary how quickly they can grow accustomed to a new routine. And it's almost concerning just what they can come to accept as routine, a new normal. It wasn't so long ago that Padmé Amidala traded the splendors of Coruscant for a simple domestic life off the coast of Tempora. No one aspires to raise their children as a single parent and fugitive, but she had made it work. 

And while she would give anything to be back there now, safe and sound from her enemies, once again she's had no choice but to reconcile herself to a new reality. Being detained by the Empire is a lot like being on the run from the Empire in that life still goes on. Suns don't stop setting, stars don't cease bursting and children still need their mothers. Every single day, her growing toddlers still need their stomachs filled, their tiny bodies washed and their little teeth brushed. They don't suddenly stop throwing tantrums or chewing on random household objects just because the Imperial database has updated their fugitive status from 'unknown' to 'in custody.' And just because the twins are far too young to understand what that means, doesn't mean they are oblivious. In fact, they are extremely sensitive to any shifts in Padmé's moods and very perceptive to any cracks in her smile. They need their mother to be strong and cheerful and capable of meeting their needs. 

The quarters that the family of three currently occupy are too nice to be a prison cell and rather too plain to brand a gilded cage. They consist of a large bedroom with a kitchenette in the corner and a separate refresher and shower. The room is furnished in an unembellished and utilitarian fashion. To pass any spare time, Padmé has been given a datapad with an extensive library of holobooks to skim through. The room also has access to a modified version of the Holonet that blasts out cartoons and Imperial propaganda all day long. The twins were lucky enough to have most of their toys brought back from Derra, along with all the necessary equipment for taking care of them.

The young mother still has nightmares about their brief initial separation, one of the most terrifying experiences in her life. She is loath to feel any sort of gratitude towards her captors, but for allowing her to continue to look after her children, she can't help but feel thankful. But while she may be thankful, she has not grown docile. She may be confined to a weirdly mundane existence at present, simulating a regular family life in an Imperial dollhouse, but underneath her meek exterior, a storm is gathering. A raging hurricane that will quietly accumulate momentum in the shadows before sweeping over the Galaxy, tearing down the Imperial flags, toppling Palpatine from his throne and reclaiming the future that was derailed and stolen. She could have settled for a quiet, domestic life; chosen a path of passive resistance after years of fighting meaningless battles in the Senate. But Palpatine had to go and declare war on her family, and for that mistake, he will pay dearly. 

Tsabin Neta-Lee lies buried in the swirling depths of the Temmer, and from her disfigured remains, Padmé Amidala has been born anew. 

”Mommy…” Leia mumbles thoughtfully one late evening while studying a stuffed bantha in her little hands. The base of its left horn needs some new stitches, hanging loosely from its fuzzy head. ”I think… I think dad in trouble.” 

Padmé's eyes spread wide. Leia has had very little interaction with her father, and none of them have seen him since he willingly relinquished his visiting privileges as part of some elaborate punishment by his Master. She is fairly sure she has never taught her the word 'dad' and doubtful that the two-and-half-year-old should even understand the concept of fatherhood. But as her brother rolls around on his side of the bed to bob his head in agreement, Padmé just sighs warmly. 

”Yes… I fear you may be right.” 

She falls silent. Her revenge fantasies rarely involve Anakin. While a major inspiration for their existence, he seldom appears in them. It might be because she just doesn't know what sort of role to cast him in. No longer does she expect a knight in shining armor to emerge from the shadows and save his family – a creature quite of her own invention. She doesn't know which side he would fight on, or if he would fight. He didn't seem to have much of a fight in him when he walked into that jail cell, head bowed, naked and defeated. 

Luke's soft snores pull her from her thoughts. On her side of the bed, Leia sinks deeper into the depths of her pillow as her lids flutter shut. Padmé leans over to kiss them both on the cheeks and sweep a few stray hairs from their foreheads. Pulling back, she continues to gaze at them wistfully, savoring a peaceful moment in a world that could, at any moment, spiral into chaos.

Standing up from the bedside, Padmé has barely taken a step when the sight at the open doorway freezes her in her tracks. It is none other than the father of her children. 

”A-Anakin…” she stutters, startled. The light from the hallway paints a halo around his boyish curls as he steps into the dim room. He peers over Padmé's shoulder to find the twins sound asleep under their blankets. 

”I…” he begins, almost bashfully, his gaze wandering. It could be the lighting, but the hollows of his cheeks look unnaturally pronounced and the light of life itself seems to have fled from his eyes. When words fail him, he simply beckons towards the hallway. 

With wary steps, Padmé follows him out of the room. Artificial light glares down on them from the overhead lamps and confirms her suspicions of just how sickly her husband looks. ”I came to see how you were doing,” he tells her.

”Oh,” Padmé utters, and decides to test him. ”Why now? Why not earlier? It's been weeks since you took us prisoner.”

”You're not prisoners,” he snaps back. 

Crossing her arms, Padmé humors him. ”Oh, right. I believe what you said was that we were going to live together.” 

A flash of something resembling hurt passes over Vader's gaze. ”I didn't come here to argue,” he mutters. ”I just wanted to see you.”

Something about his tone has a placating effect on Padmé. She drops her hostility for a moment and looks up at him searchingly. ”Are you being sent on a mission?” 

He gives a vague nod. ”That's right.”

His noncommittal answer prompts Padmé to form her own conclusions about the nature of the assignment. A sudden anger rises within her. Her tone turns icy again. ”So… off to make the Galaxy a better and safer place. Right? Isn't that what's plastered on most Imperial propaganda these days?” 

”Padmé…”

A painful noise falls from Padmé's lips. She always hears Anakin in the way he says her name, and sees him in the way he looks at her when he does. Her anger melts away as quickly as it blazed alive as an overwhelming sadness washes over her like a rainshower. A sudden impulse erupts from her aching heart, ”The twins love you.”

Vader blinks down at her. ”What?” 

”It's true,” she reiterates in a whisper. ”They don't even know you, and they love you. They love you.” Before she can stop herself, she has already said 'love you' three times in a row. The realization raises a faint warmth on her cheeks. ”And I know… I know how much you wanted them.” A distant image flashes across her mind's eye, of the day Anakin first learned they were going to be parents. Of him beaming down at her, whispering loving reassurances in her ear. Describing the moment as the happiest in his life. ”I know how much you wanted to be a…” 

She bites down on her lip, barring an endless stream of things she could say. And yet, some of them still manage to slip through the cracks. ”What has Palpatine threatened you with that you _have_ to serve him? Why do you allow him to treat you like…” _Like you're a – Like you're a –_ The feed from the surveillance camera replays in her head, over and over. ”…the way he does?” She searches the depths of the ambery eyes looking down at her. ”It's like he has you under a spell. What is it that he is giving you… that we never could?” 

The air in the corridor seems to grow heavier with each individual breath that passes between the husband and wife. An anticipatory silence reigns over them as they stare deeply into each other's eyes, both desperately trying to understand the person behind the gaze, before any words have been spoken.

”Everything.” 

Padmé draws her head back in dismay. Anakin continues, ”Padmé… don't you see? I'm nothing without him. Without him, I never could have saved your life. Without him… I never would have found you again. All the power I possess… it's all an illusion. Without him, I'd be nothing. Less significant than a speck of dust. It is out of generosity that he has allowed me to be his student… his apprentice.” He pulls in a shaky breath, ”Don't you see? I need him. I'm… _weak._ I can't raise a family. I'm not capable of taking care of you, any of you. Everything I have… I have because of my Master.”

As she's been listening, the burning indignation has slowly dwindled from Padmé's eyes and a quiet desolation taken its place. His answer has shocked and saddened her to her core, but at the same time, she's glad to have extracted it from him. She may not understand, but she can respond. 

”Because of him,” she articulates her words slowly and emphatically, as though talking to a child, ”you have _nothing._ Not me. Not us. Not even yourself.” 

The details of his face attempt to mimic dismissal. But even that layer of stone is brittle and Padmé can see through the cracks. Suddenly, she wants to reach out through the fissures and chip the stone away. Unable to suppress the urge, she surrenders to it, cupping his head between her palms and pulling him down into a full, wet kiss.

He chokes out soft noises into her mouth, which she at first interprets as rejection. She pulls away slightly, only to have him respond with a newfound enthusiasm. They dissolve into a mess of heat and passion and tangled emotions. But within that heat, there's not a trace of yesterday, no cooled leftovers being reheated into lukewarm reminisces. The flames that scorch their lips are fresh and new and exhilarating. 

A disembodied pull finally seems to break them apart as the once-lovers fight against it all the way. The burn of longing lingers in their gazes as their eyes meet in a lock. And at that moment, epiphany washes over Padmé like a fresh spring rain. 

”I'm going to save you,” she tells him. She tells him this with confidence, as though making a plain observation, or remembering something that has already happened. ”I don't know when, or how… but I promise. I will save you, Anakin.” 

Padmé expects a dismissal, an amused chuckle at best. A part of _her_ wants to chuckle, the words having slipped from her lips in the heat of moment and becoming increasingly hard to believe as they hang in the air. But instead, she finds an odd twinkle of curiosity in his eyes, flickering down at her. 

”Okay,” he nods. ”Then save me.”

It could still be a dismissal, a way of humoring her. The twinkle she imagines seeing could just be a glint of light being reflected in his eyes. The gentle, calm voice that reaches her ears might sound cold and unfeeling on replay. But the words themselves are unambiguous.

_Save me._

In the silence that follows, Padmé lets herself be escorted back to her room, hearing the heavy door clang shut behind her. In the dimness of the room, she still sees that mysterious twinkle; in the silence, she hears his voice.

_Save me._

-

After the once-great Gree fell into ruin, many places on the murky planet were left without names. One of those places is the wasteland that finds Obi-Wan and Rex sharing a dimming evening, a site of scattered ruins that cast eerie shadows over their forms as they watch the planet's scorching sun descend into the horizon. The desolate scenery reminds Obi-Wan of Colstev, with one key difference. Colstev was a place of regret and reminiscence. But the air on Gree is awash with anticipation and hope. 

”Of course, I don't presume to predict his every move,” Rex says. ”But I am reasonably confident he will come alone. I've seen him take down actual armies on his own, and…” A smug smirk lights up his features. ”Well, after the stunt_ I_ pulled…” 

”He would be reluctant to place trust in any of his men again,” Obi-Wan supplies, and Rex nods eagerly. ”Brilliant.”

Should Rex's prediction fail to become reality, the implementation of their plan will get messier, but not impossible. Orbiting the planet, a small rebel fleet lies in ambush. The details of the mission are strictly need-to-know: all they've been told is that it involves the apprehension of an Imperial officer, and that all reinforcements are to keep their distance and maintain stealth mode unless explicitly signaled to join the fray. Obi-Wan would prefer their objective be accomplished without casualties. 

”I want to try and talk to him first,” Obi-Wan muses quietly, rubbing the base of his bearded chin. ”I know that there's probably nothing I can say that would convince him to come willingly… but I want him to have the option.”

”Of course,” Rex says understandingly. ”And… you remember what to do next?”

Obi-Wan nods. The plan is simple: trick Vader into touching the hilt of his opponent's lightsaber, coated with a thick layer of Starless Night. The sedative takes almost a full minute to absorb through the skin and take effect, but once it does, the effect is thorough and inexorable. ”What if he wears a glove?” Obi Wan questions. ”He used to wear gloves on both hands during the Clone Wars. No, wait… he stopped wearing one on his left hand towards the end of the war, didn't he? I seem to remember him saying something about better being able to feel the Force that way.” 

”Well, there you go.” Rex whips his head thoughtfully to the side. ”We always have plan B.”

A mild grimace stretches over Obi-Wan's face. ”I don't like the idea of those rebels finding out exactly who it is we're taking into custody.” 

Rex shakes his head. ”It won't come to that. I said I don't presume to predict his every move, but… actually, I take that back. You and I are the leading experts of predicting Anakin Skywalker's every move.” 

-

_Kill him and be done with it._

_Kill him… and be done with it._

Vader sighs, staring into the passage of hyperspace that swirls on before him. Since failure isn't an option – his Master has warned him in no uncertain terms that his family will be the ones to suffer the consequences – he wonders how he will feel after the deed is done. A shiver runs down his spine when he realizes it might have been done a long time ago. Had Kenobi not slipped through his fingers, his final moments could already be in the past. How would Vader feel, then? Would he have rejoiced? Mourned? Felt nothing?

Gradually, a certain realization has been creeping up on him that only now congeals into coherent thought. He doesn't really believe that Padmé and Obi-Wan were ever together, and he's not sure that he ever did. He has a thousand reasons to resent them – they still conspired behind his back and hid his children away for two years – and he doesn't even know if this particular concession bears any significance. He's not actively looking for reasons not to hate a man he's about to kill in cold blood. But in the moment that it dawns on him, it seems significant.

The navicom blares in warning of the approaching hyperspace exit. Vader leans over to grab the yoke and prepare for the jump. The ship lurches forward and the murky, spherical form of Gree comes into view. He takes a moment to check the coordinates, before the Force distracts him and sweeps him away into its depths. Vader closes his eyes. 

_Kenobi is here. _

_And with him…_

_Rex. _

A bizarre sense of foreboding grips around Vader's heart as he activates the landing procedures and shoots through a dark layer of clouds towards what looks like an endless wasteland. Already, the scene is oddly reminiscent of their reunion back on Colstev. But this time, Vader can't help the nagging feeling that something is… off. He chalks it up to his torn feelings about what he is about to do. 

Descending into a rough, impatient landing, he recognizes the _Tenebrae_ as he slides down, partially hidden from view by the ruins that dominate the landscape. The damage to its front seems indicative of a crash landing. Vader frowns. It seems the stars have truly aligned for him to kill his old Master tonight. 

The ramp descends and he steps out into the cold night, faintly illuminated by a ceiling of stars. When Kenobi emerges from the darkness, there is something different about him. He is dressed in dark grays to match the night, his hands slipped into black gloves. His lightsaber dangles unignited in a loose grip in his hand. 

The expression on his darkened features doesn't betray a trace of surprise. 

”Anakin,” he addresses his former student. His tone is laced with a strange sense of… urgency. ”All I'm asking is that you hear me out.”

Vader's fiery red saber flares alive. He isn't in the mood for games, and he doesn't want to draw this out. But Kenobi must know he is as good as dead, that any words he speaks now will be his last. 

”I promise you, I am trying to help you,” Kenobi continues, approaching with cautious steps. ”It might be hard for you to believe, but I am.”

Vader lets out an incredulous scoff. This is not a man speaking his last words. The silver-tongued bastard is actually trying to negotiate his way out of this. The Sith apprentice twirls his saber in warning. ”I think you know exactly how you can help me.”

”Yes,” Kenobi says, his voice rising in pitch as an unidentified emotion bleeds into it. ”The trouble is, you don't have the faintest idea.” Vader is about to lunge when the former Jedi continues, inexplicably halting his movement, ”You have been lied to, Anakin. The Master you serve has deceived you in a most heinous and despicable way. Please – come with me, and let me help you.”

The words blur into meaningless mush in Vader's ears. ”There's but one thing I want from you.” 

Launching into an attack, Vader decides to once again resort to one of his trump cards – the ”quick finish” that he used on Kenobi on Colstev. It's a move that requires superlative skill and speed, but becomes simple once one masters it. The idea is to, in quick succession, block your opponent's strike, disarm them by grabbing the hilt of their weapon, then Force-push them to the ground. The maneuver certainly seemed to take Kenobi by surprise last time, and Vader has little doubt it will work again. 

Kenobi's blue seethes and sizzles as Vader's red crashes into it. With a twist of his hand, he then manipulates Kenobi's arm movements so that his grip on his weapon slackens. Then he snatches it with his free hand in one harsh motion, before harnessing the Force and pushing. Just at that moment, it registers that the surface of the weapon is_ wet_ for some reason – distracting him just long enough that Kenobi is able to retaliate with a Force push of his own. An exceedingly powerful push, at that, flinging Vader across the desert and sending him rolling across the ground. Disoriented, he scrambles to his feet, finding them still wobbly. Something is wrong. He tries to charge again, only to find himself unsure as to whether he's still holding a weapon, or how to go about checking something like that. Then his knees buckle from under him and the edges of his vision blacken. Kenobi appears from nowhere to break his fall and catch him in his arms, all the while Vader desperately tries to put up some semblance of a struggle. 

”It's okay,” a distant voice assures him. ”It's going to be okay, Anakin.” 

”Go to hell,” Vader snarls before darkness carries him away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this story is literally just people taking turns capturing each other. lol


	17. Irony

Vader stirs awake to the glare of lamps looming over him. The air in the room feels suffocating in his lungs. A few moments pass before full awareness reaches him. And that's when it hits him like a kick to the gut: he's been cut off from the Force. 

His half-panicked attempt to get up is brought to a swift end when heavy restraints on his wrists and ankles hold him back, strapping him down to the bed underneath. He twists and tugs at his bonds, but without the Force, it's no use. 

Flopping back against the sheets, he takes a look around the room. It looks to be a medical facility of some kind, with non-descript white walls and a cluster of machines humming on either side of the bed. He watches his heartbeat raise agitated waves on one of the screens as new alarm flares in his chest. 

Recollection returns to him sluggishly, but once it does, anger and self-reproach are quick to follow: once again, he's been bested by – 

”Hello, Anakin.” 

Vader bristles as the all-too familiar voice rings out from the doorway. He averts his eyes, refusing to acknowledge his old Master, who steps into the room and makes his way to the bedside. A vague white blur settles in his periphery, looming like a phantom over Vader's seething form. 

”How are you feeling?” Kenobi inquires. The concern in his voice is infuriating. ”I hope we didn't overdo it with the Force suppressants.” When he fails to elicit a response, he taps his knuckles against the bedside railing and adds, ”This is a… temporary arrangement, I promise.” 

Vader clenches his jaw, snarling through gritted teeth, ”What do you want?”

Kenobi waits a moment before speaking. ”Ah, yes.” For a while, he just shuffles his feet nervously before dropping into a seat. ”I would advise you to sit down for this as well, but you seem to have already assumed a horizontal position,” he observes, in what seems to be a misguided attempt at levity. Then, releasing a long sigh, Kenobi settles deeper into his seat and gazes into an unseen point in the distance. ”Around three years ago… some six months before the end of the war –” 

”Wait,” Vader cuts in, the holoscreen once again flashing alarmed spikes as his heart rate quickens. ”How long was I out? How long has it been since – since we –”

”Some 24 hours,” Kenobi tells him patiently. ”Please, Anakin, just listen. You're going to want to hear this.”

”24 hours…” Vader feels a cold grip in his chest. _Sidious' ultimatum… Padmé and the twins…_ He levels a murderous scowl towards his captor and his voice drops to a chilling whisper. ”You don't know what you've done.” 

”Anakin, all I'm asking is that you –” 

One minute Vader feels ice course through his veins and the next he's already erupted into incandescent, uncontrollable rage. _”You don't know what you've done!”_ he screams, thrashing against his bonds like a wild animal. _”It's your fault! They're dead and it's your fault! Why couldn't you just die?! You took them from me and now you're gonna kill them! You killed them! It's your fault!” _

Eyes wide, Kenobi has retreated a step. He holds his hands up in what is probably supposed to be a placating gesture. ”There is no need for shouting, please, we can talk about this like two civilized adults –”

_”Shut up! Just shut up!”_ Vader rages, his voice a mere screeching wheeze now. He twists and tosses on the bed until it shakes, summoning every last ounce of his Forceless strength as he struggles against the cuffs on his wrists, _”It's your fault, it's your fault, it's your –” _ With a particularly forceful yank, he manages to tear one cuff loose from the chain fastening it to the railing. Alarm explodes across Kenobi's face, and he suddenly reaches for the medical cart nearby. 

Vader knows what's coming, and he doesn't like it one bit. _”Murderer!”_ he screams. _”Stay away from me, stay away –”_ But Kenobi is already holding the syringe. He squirts out a droplet of the sedative liquid before reaching out to hold down Vader's arm and pressing the needle into his neck.

-

Following his benevolent capture on Gree, Obi-Wan and Rex had brought Vader to an inactive rebel base on the planet Comra. One of the facilities there had been used as an infirmary, which had then been re-furnished, re-supplied and thoroughly sterilized for the patient's arrival. The Alderaanian doctors were already waiting there, having made all the necessary arrangements for the chip removal surgery. Before proceeding any further, they had subjected the unknowing captive to a head scan, to determine the chip's location… or, alternatively, the necessity of the operation. 

As the moment of truth approached, Obi-Wan told himself any number of times to keep an open mind and ready himself for any outcome. The absence of a chip did not rule out the possibility that Anakin had been subjected to other methods of brainwashing or coercive measures. And even if there was a way to conclusively determine that no such methods had been used… it didn't matter. In his heart, Obi-Wan already had all the answers he needed. And he knew he wasn't alone in that conviction. By this point, he and Rex seemed to have forged a wordless pact to stick together and help their friend, whether or not he deserved it. 

”The chip is located in the back of his head. Through the nervous system, however, it seems to be closely connected to the frontal lobe, the part of the brain that presides over such functions as reasoning, self-control and decision-making. Just like the clones, though his seems a little more… tightly sewn in. But don't worry, Master Kenobi, we are confident in our abilities to safely remove the little devil with minimal to no damage to the brain.” 

The doctor's words still echo in Obi-Wan's head as he and Rex sit silently amid the remains of a former conference room, waiting for Anakin to wake up from another bout of medically induced sleep. 

”I know…” Rex begins slowly. ”I know you want to have his informed consent… just like I did, with the boys… but… considering the state he's in…”

”It might not happen,” Obi-Wan finishes the thought. Burying his head in his hands, he releases a forlorn sigh. ”I wanted to show him the radiograph, just… provide some measure of concrete proof that we're telling the truth… but I never even got to the truth part.” 

”Perhaps if I…” Rex muses quietly. ”Perhaps if I went in next… he might be less hostile towards someone who… erm, isn't his old Jedi Master who stole his family away.”

”But you're still a traitor in his eyes,” Obi-Wan points out. ”Chances are, he'll just hurl the same abuse at you. Unless…” he hesitates, sinking into a pensive silence. His lips part a couple of times to release wordless breaths before he finally says, ”I can't shake the feeling that… it wasn't just my presence that triggered that reaction in him. He was still fairly calm when I first came in. I kept telling him to listen, but… perhaps _I_ should have listened.” 

”I was watching through the holocam the whole time,” Rex reminds him, and huffs out a dry laughter. ”His key point seemed to lie in the central premise that you are the root cause of all evil. It didn't strike me as a very… rational basis for a conversation.” He pauses, a solemn frown forming on his brow. ”Have you considered that the chip might be… at least partially responsible… for putting those kinds of thoughts in his head?”

Obi-Wan twists to face him, surprised. ”No,” he admits, voice rising in horrified curiosity. 

”I speak from experience… at least, I think,” Rex says uncertainly, rubbing the curve of his jaw. ”I think. The chip…” His features twist into a strange expression, one of wonder almost, as he considers the minuscule slip of code that defined the course of his life for so many years. ”I remember how they would describe its function as that of… 'enhancing our loyalty and obedience'… because it sounds like such an organic process, right? And most of the time, it was. But sometimes, I remember having these… intrusive thoughts, thoughts that didn't really feel like my own… but that were all the more compulsive, irrepressible almost. Thoughts about killing… for the right side, for the right reasons. I even had some… _really_…” He flaps a hand above his head. ”…aggressive thoughts about the enemy. I rarely stopped to think about them, and when I did… well, I figured, that's just the reality of war, kid. It changes us. But now… when I think back…” He lifts his head to stare up at the ceiling. ”It almost feels like… these thoughts, these… planted ideas in my head… somehow, they were slowly turning my brain into _mush_… into this malleable material, so that… when the time came… I would be unable to resist.” His chin drops again, gaze swirling across the floor for a while, before he slowly turns to look his Jedi companion in the eye. 

Obi-Wan stares back at him, naked horror contorting his face. ”Rex…” he breathes. ”We have got to get that_ thing_ out of his head.”

-

The surgery itself takes no longer than thirty minutes. The feeling is surreal. The Alderaanian doctors mill in and out of the operation room, each assuring Obi-Wan in turn that the removal was a success and that they are giving the patient painkillers and more Force suppressants and monitoring his vitals and making ready to bring him out of unconsciousness within the next few hours. 

Obi-Wan can scarcely believe it. Anakin is free. _He's free, and everything will be okay._ Just like he told him it would. 

While the head surgeon is still giving his report, Obi-Wan steals a glance through the small window to the operation room. On the bed, Anakin lies, now restrained not only by his wrists and ankles but by his chest and waist as well. The chains on his wrists seem to have been doubled. Obi-Wan's heart sinks a little at the sight, but he quickly reminds himself: temporary arrangement. They will tell Anakin the truth, and he will understand, and he will hate the man who did this to him with the intensity of a thousand suns. Once upon a time, he might have advised a hot-headed young Padawan to be mindful of his emotions, but that time is past. He almost wants Anakin to hate Sidious more than he wants the boy to love him again. 

Tantalizing minutes tick by as Obi-Wan waits for Anakin to wake up. He is only distantly aware of his own comings and goings; pacing back and forth in the hallway, exchanging reassurances with Rex, nibbling half-heartedly at his lunch. The only thing that momentarily shakes him out of his stupor is the news headline that suddenly appears on a muted holoscreen above him, _Senator Organa arrested on treason charges._ Sighing, he mouths a silent prayer and leaves the fate of his friend to the will of the Force. 

After what seems like eternities, the head doctor appears again, coming up to Obi-Wan to inform him that the patient is awake. The former Jedi hesitates. 

”Perhaps if I gave him another minute to…” he suggests tentatively. 

”Having witnessed the… incident earlier,” the doctor replies, ”it might be better if you went in now, while he's already lucid but still reasonably calm due to the painkillers' effects.” 

Obi-Wan swallows. A nagging discomfort churns in his gut. ”Very well then. Thank you.” He beckons Rex to follow him into the recovery room.

From his restricted position on the bed, Anakin lifts his head. His half-lidded gaze follows the visitors as they move to sit at the bedside. His eyes linger on Rex a while longer, regarding him with an idle, dazed intensity. Staring into the glaze in his eyes, Obi-Wan can't help but wonder if the doctors might have overestimated his degree of lucidity or the amount of painkillers required in his system. 

The first thing that Anakin says seems to suggest otherwise. ”Why does my head hurt?”

Obi-Wan nods amicably. ”That's what we've come to talk to you about.”

”I see…” Anakin mutters. He cranes his neck to the side and blinks curiously at his wrist restraints. Then his gaze snaps up again, to lock eyes with Rex. A small, hoarse laughter escapes him. ”Wow. You two really…” He shakes his curls against the pillow. ”You two really… bested me… you really… outwitted me, this time…”

Obi-Wan and Rex trade glances, wordlessly debating whether this is really a good idea. Finally, Rex nods his head in affirmation, and Obi-Wan thinks he understands. This could be the perfect opportunity to break the news to him in a gentle fashion. 

As they explain, clarity slowly seems to return to Anakin's eyes. He listens in silence, still so calm, so eerily calm, even as the fog around his head disperses and understanding flows to him in quiet trickles. Obi-Wan watches with admiration as Rex bravely shares his own story, makes an effort to understand the experience of a man he resented for two years. Obi-Wan himself, once renowned for his eloquence, struggles to string together a sentence that isn't an apology or an unrelated recount of a memory they shared during simpler times. Maybe he does want to fill Anakin's heart with love, after all. 

Finally, the words run out, leaving behind only that which cannot be thus expressed. An enormous weight falls off Obi-Wan's chest –_ everything will be okay. Everything will soon be set right._ But the knot in his stomach grows tighter. The Force that flows in the room feels unsettled and restless, a storm of conflicting feelings that seem to collide, break apart and blur together all at once. 

”Let me see if I've understood you correctly,” Anakin finally says, leaning back into the pillow under his head. ”You're saying that about two weeks prior to the Empire's inception… Chancellor Palpatine kidnapped me. That during those two weeks… of which I have no memory… while I was in a helpless, comatose state… he forced me into surgery. The purpose of which was to implant me with a control chip, which has the power to… compel me to do… whatever he wants?” 

”Yes… that is the gist of it,” Obi-Wan replies warily. 

Vader barks out a laughter. ”And you don't see… the irony in that?”

”Irony?”

A sharp glint flashes over the gold in Vader's gaze. ”Everything you accuse him of, _you_ have done. _You_ kidnapped me. _You_ sedated me senseless and sent me in chains into a surgery, and you know what?” His voice has risen to a broken shout. ”How do I know that _you_ didn't just put something in my head? Or remove something from there, it doesn't matter! How do I know that this isn't all part of some scheme to brainwash me, to control me? You seem awfully eager to project the blame on my Master, when there's more evidence that _you_ did all this!” 

Obi-Wan stares at him, taken aback. He feels as though the ground itself is disappearing from under him. ”Anakin… _no_… we would never…”

_”Stop calling me that!”_ Vader screams, pulling against his bonds. 

”No,” Obi-Wan repeats. Beside him, Rex tries to say something, only managing incoherent noises. ”I know we should have asked for your consent –”

_”Consent for what?!”_ Vader wheezes. _”Your little lobotomy?! Just what are you trying to get me to 'consent' to?!”_

”Anakin… I swear to you. I am trying to help you.” 

_”So you keep telling me! So help me and let me go, so I can put a saber through you once and for all!” _

Something shatters inside Obi-Wan. He surges up from his chair with so little grace, so little care for anything that isn't the sound of his heart breaking, that it keels over and rolls across the floor. For a long minute, he and Vader just stare at each other. He has stopped struggling, scowling up at his captors with a chilly, silent contempt burning in his eyes. 

And thus begins Anakin Skywalker's journey to freedom. With chains, Force suppressants, and the inescapable question of whether it is already too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know communication issues are no one's favorite plot device, but my reasoning for their overwhelming presence in this chapter is that Anakin has trouble the stringing together the sentence (or even the thought) 'Palpatine will harm my wife/kids unless I bring him your head' because that would mean admitting that his Master is what threatens their safety, and not his own failure/Obi-Wan's unwillingness to die. the chip automatically guides his thoughts to directions that are favorable to Palpatine. 
> 
> and this is true even after its removal, because his loyalty to Sidious has become an organic part of their dynamic, and also of the way he thinks and views the world. I warned you about this back in chapter 1. no, I'm not making this easy for any of us, and yes, life is suffering.


	18. The Right Thing

Despite their contrasting temperaments, the twins rarely ever used to fight. But while they've been in Imperial custody, this seems to have become a daily occurrence. Normally, Padmé prefers not to overthink her children's Force sensitivity. But she is certain that they have started acting out because they can sense that something is _wrong._ Not only that – they seem to be picking up on the feelings and moods of the people that surround them and absorbing and imitating those emotions. Having been surrounded by nothing but love and laughter before, that was all they knew. But now, not only is their mother caught in a constant cycle of fear and anxiety, but there are all sorts of negative feelings and qualities floating around on the eleventh floor of an Imperial space station. Anger, impatience, irritation… greed. 

_”Leia took ship! Leia took ship!”_ Luke screams at the top of his ever expanding lungs, sprawled out across the floor, finger leveled at his sister. Across the room, Leia sits blithely in a high chair, holding a yellow toy spaceship in her hand and making _woosh-woosh_ sounds. 

Turning away from the half-prepared porridge for a moment, Padmé shakes her head. ”Leia had that ship first, sweetie, she couldn't have taken it from you from up there, see? There's lots of other toys for you just lying around,” she gestures at the assortment of stuffed animals and building blocks scattered across the carpet. 

”I want _ship!_” Luke screeches, bitter tears pricking at his eyes. He gets up to his feet and angrily wobbles over to the high chair where his sister is perched. _”Leia took ship!”_ he accuses, attempting to rock the chair with one hand while reaching for his favorite toy with the other. 

Clicking her tongue in frustration, Padmé abandons the porridge and rushes over to intervene. ”Luke, _no,_ we don't do that!” she scolds, crouching down and lifting her son by the armpits. ”We wait patiently for our turn, and –” Her lecture is cut short when she raises her eyes to find her daughter with her arms outstretched, levitating the toy ship across the air. Luke has burst into earnest tears and Leia sticks out her tongue at him, breaking her concentration and dropping the ship. And then they're both bawling. 

”Are you kidding me?” Padmé mutters, kneeling down to pick up the bone of contention. ”I can't even make you breakfast anymore without you two… paranormal imps learning a new trick while my back is turned? Think of your poor, ordinary mother for once…” 

No sooner has she besought her children's sympathy than their cries dwindle away. But before Padmé can congratulate herself on her increasingly effective parenting methods, she sees them staring over her shoulder and whips around. 

”Mrs. Darth Vader,” Emperor Palpatine intones from the doorway. His masked Red Guards follow in his wake as he steps into the room. For a moment, Padmé finds herself unable to move, a thousand nightmares from the past weeks emerging from her subconscious and flooding her imagination. Then her motherly instincts kick in and she steps back to position herself between her children and the unwelcome guest. 

”I do hope the accommodations have been to your liking,” the Emperor says conversationally, swiveling his gnarled neck around the room. 

”What do you want, Palpatine?” Padmé demands tersely. 

The Emperor gives an amused chuckle. ”What do I want?” he drawls. ”Why, that is a rather broad question.”

”For a man who already has an Empire, I should think not.”

”Ah.” His horrible sulfur gaze settles on her children. In her chair, Leia blinks blankly at the newcomer, while Luke takes a sudden interest in the toys he rejected earlier. ”Your children are exhibiting rather remarkable talents at such a young age,” Palpatine continues, sending a chill down Padmé's spine. ”They seem to be taking after their father in that regard. I happened to overhear you… expressing some concern as to whether there's much _you_ can offer them as a parent, being so very… _ordinary _yourself.” 

He draws closer to Leia, peering at her tense form over Padmé's shoulder, but the young mother digs her heels into the floor and spits out, ”Touch one strand of her hair and I promise you… you will regret it.” 

But before she can react, the Red Guards step forward from Palpatine's flanks and push her out of the way. One of them grabs her by the shoulders and restrains her arms to her sides. She fights uselessly against the silent man's grasp as Palpatine comes up to her daughter and reaches out with a bony hand. With a feather-light touch, he then plucks out a single strand of Leia's dark hair between two fingertips. 

Leia's response is immediate and fiery. Nose scrunching up in disgust, she pulls her hands up and strikes. Her tiny fists land hard on Palpatine's forearm, and judging by his reaction, he is surprised by the strength packed into the little girl's body. Chuckling under his breath, the Emperor steps back, ”Ah, yes. Such aggression. Such… potential.” 

In the Red Guard's grip, Padmé is seething. Through gritted teeth, she hisses out slowly, ”I will never let you do to them what you did to my husband. Never.” 

”Hmh, yes,” Palpatine drawls, circling her. ”Your darling husband.” He falls into a thoughtful pause, considering his loyal servant. ”Obviously, your children are still very young…” he casts a glance at Luke, who remains engrossed in what seems to be a turf war between a tooka and a Jogan fruit, ”while he's at the height of his prime, and will be of much use to me for many decades to come. Efficient… ruthless… lethal. But lately, I've been questioning… whether he is truly worthy of being called… an _apprentice_ of mine.” 

Padmé refuses to take the bait and ask him why. She doesn't want to validate the Sith Lord's words with a response. Of course, the bastard proceeds to tell her, anyway. 

”You see… I have come to realize that before he is my student, he is… something of an… _experiment._ A project. And before he became a project, he was a… hasty solution. And so, you see… no matter how powerful he grows, how much promise he shows… I find that I simply cannot… _respect_ him. He may have the trappings of a Sith… but in essence, he is naught but a tool. And I find myself craving the companionship of someone who will… challenge me one day. Someone that I would take pride in teaching.” Palpatine's horrible grin stretches to his ears. ”Someone I would take pride in striking down.” 

Padmé's breathing has grown shallow. She stares at her captor in horror. ”Experiment? …Solution? So you _did_ force his hand. You…” Her voice trails away as the sheer weight of understanding threatens to crush her underneath, soon to be succeeded by another unpleasant realization. ”And I imagine you're telling me this because… you don't expect me to live very long.” 

Palpatine smiles, exuding smugness. ”I'm giving him a fair choice. It's you or Kenobi. Unfortunately for you… he has already chosen Kenobi twice. And should there be a third time…” He gestures at the guards, and they let Padmé go. With a swish of his dark robe, he turns on his heel and leads his entourage to the doorway, where he whirls around once more. ”I will make him do it himself.” 

The door clanks shut behind the sweep of a red cloak. 

A terrible chill settles in Padmé's heart. It takes her a moment to identify the feeling - hopelessness. A creeping hopelessness that spreads through her body in waves, petrifying her to the spot.

She is no fairytale heroine, no protagonist of her own story. Her revenge fantasies are not reality, her threats have no substance behind them and her defiant words ring empty. She couldn't save her husband, and she can't save her children, and now she's going to die.

Maybe it would have been better to just get it over with back when it felt like a good idea. 

-

In the hallway outside, their quarters are guarded by a minimum of three clones at all times. Usually four – except when the fourth one pops in to bring their meals and sometimes other essentials. It could be a different clone every time – after all, they all wear black and white armor and helmets over their heads. If it was hard to tell them apart before, it's impossible now. Not that Padmé really cares. When the delivery boy comes in, she barely acknowledges him, other than to size him up and put together increasingly far-fetched escape plans; tackling him at the door, taking his weapon, grabbing her toddlers and running. They would never get farther than the threshold. And so she averts her gaze and lets him fill the shelves. 

Then, one day, something unexpected happens. Luke and Leia have both started levitating objects now, and the floor of their prison cell/living room is sprinkled with misplaced toy ships, building blocks and duraplast containers. Padmé no longer bothers to pick them up – they'll find their way back before she has time to say 'not at Mommy's face, sweetie'. All her energy is spent on maintaining a brave face for Luke and Leia, and making the most of the time they have left together. For the second time in her life, she has given up. Only this time, she refuses to abandon her children. Maybe the memory of a loving mother will protect them from whatever Palpatine has planned, whatever horrors lie in their future. At least, that's what she tells herself.

She has just convinced them to turn in for a nap after a long afternoon of throwing things, when it happens. The trooper walks in with a new batch of meals, the heavy door clanging shut behind him. Reflexively, Padmé lifts her gaze. It all seems to happen in slow motion. The trooper whirls towards the kitchenette, but with the mealboxes blocking his view, he doesn't see the wheeled kaadu toy he's about to step on. The kaadu rolls under his foot with an alarming _whizz_ sound, sending his legs in the air in a perfect half-arch. He hits the floor hard, back of the neck first, and the mealboxes follow, tumbling open as they fall and spilling their contents all over the heap of pristine white armor stretched out across the carpet.

Padmé's eyes widen as the scene unfolds, unable to believe what they're seeing – and before she knows it, she has burst out laughing. She cannot recall the last time she laughed – _really_ laughed, and didn't just force a smile or a chuckle for her children. But now, her belly shakes in a frenzied fit of hysterics and her eyes fill with tears. She is only distantly aware of her children stirring and groaning in their beds as their mommy revels in the moment, relishes with every fiber of her being the absurd hilarity of it all. She forgets everything else, forgets the world around her, forgets her fears and worries. She just laughs and laughs and laughs. 

”I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” she hurries to say, her voice still quivering with laughter as she rushes to the trooper's side and offers a hand to help him to his feet. Sauces and salad dressings of all kinds dribble down his armor and pool on the carpet. ”I didn't mean to laugh, I'm sorry…”

”T-that's okay, ma'am,” the trooper stutters in reply, his voice slightly muffled by the helmet. ”It was my fault, I'm sorry…” 

”Luke, Leia, go back to sleep,” Padmé calls to her children as she grabs a better hold of the clone's arm. ”Nothing to see here.” Luke blinks and drifts right back off, but Leia sits up and scowls at the pair in confusion. ”I'm sorry we woke you. Go back to sleep, sweetie.” The little girl glowers at them for another moment, then rolls the other way.

”Ow!” the clone yelps out then, just as he reaches a standing position. He puts his whole weight to one foot, holding up his other leg as Padmé supports him. ”My ankle…” Experimentally, he tries to set the foot down again, only to wince when his weight shifts. 

”Oh dear,” Padmé laments, holding tight onto his arm. ”Are you hurt? I'm sorry I laughed.”

”It's okay, it's okay, ma'am,” the trooper assures her. ”If I could just…” Padmé helps him limp his way over to a couch and sits him gently down. Luke has one eye open, but Padmé shakes her head and mouths at him to _go to sleep._ Kneeling down, she helps the clone remove his leg armor from around the ailing limb and sets about examining the damage. She has completed three separate courses of first-aid training and has plenty of hands-on experience from the field. 

Rolling up his underleggings, she takes a look at the sore ankle, which is already showing signs of swelling. ”I'm just going to palpate around here, just a little,” she informs her patient before wrapping her hands around the ankle and pressing down. Judging by the motion of his head, the trooper stifles a yelp, and Padmé can imagine a grimace flashing on his face.

”Does it hurt?” she inquires.

The clone nods, letting out a little chuckle. ”Oh kriff… this is so embarrassing. What will the guys say?”

Padmé smirks up at him as she withdraws her hands and throws them up playfully. ”Well, I say you have a sprained ankle.” 

The clone shakes his helmeted head, chuckling through the voice-filter. ”I should call the medbay. Can't we just tell them you attacked me, or something?” 

His quip earns a laugh from Padmé, and she nods her head towards the site of the accident, where the offending toy remains in plain view, ”What's wrong with telling the truth? Kaadus are vicious animals.” 

It's the trooper's turn to laugh – a pure, sparkling laughter, even filtered through the helmet. Padmé draws her head back, a sudden warmth blossoming in her chest. ”I know a really quick way to check for concussion, as well.” 

The trooper hesitates a moment. ”Ah… alright then.” He removes his helmet, revealing a familiar and yet unique face, with dark crew-cut hair and a small scar on the chin. Padmé extends her hand. ”I'm Padmé, by the way.” 

The trooper gives a shy grin as he clasps her hand; a brisk, firm shake. ”Wright.” 

”Wright,” Padmé echoes. Just then, the pit of her stomach lurches with sudden wild hope and her heart starts beating faster. ”Do you like working here, Wright? Are you… are you happy?” 


	19. The Liberated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, ridiculously quick update. no, I won't be able to maintain this pace, but sometimes when you have four days off, stuff just springs into existence.

Escaping a heavily guarded Imperial space station may seem like a daunting feat – but not impossible, as it turned out, when one has a cool head and two newly enlisted allies from the inside. The twins had arrived here in the arms of stormtroopers, and thus they also left. To entrust their lives in the hands of strangers, whom, mere minutes ago, Padmé had thought of as enemies and the Empire's bloodhounds, was not easy. But then, were the clones not also entrusting _her_ with their lives, giving up everything they had ever known to help her? Risking capture and execution with every passing second, every unauthorized step they took towards the hangar and promises of a brave new life that might never be fulfilled? 

Theirs was an unlikely alliance, but once formed, it was forever. 

”You seem like a good man, Wright,” she recalls saying, back in the prison cell she'd called home for the past few weeks. She saw the alarm spreading across his face, but what was said was said and now there was no turning back. ”I need your help. Please, just hear me out. We can help each other. Please.” 

Wright frowned down at her, but something, in that moment, held him back from reaching for his comm and cutting her plea short. Emboldened, Padmé placed a hand over her heart. ”You must recognize me. Padmé Amidala, former Senator of Naboo. What you may not know about me is that Darth Vader is my husband,” she motioned towards the bed from where a light hum of snores was sounding, ”and those two angels over there are our kids.”

The trooper gave a small nod, as though to indicate that he was, in fact, aware of this. Padmé felt her heart pounding in her ears as she went on, her tone growing feverish, ”Their names are Luke and Leia. They're my whole life, and they're innocents in all this. But Emperor Palpatine has plans for them. He wants to turn them into weapons. Just like their father.” She paused, looking the trooper in the eye. From a repressed place in her conscience, the words just came to her, before she herself understood how deeply true they rang, ”Just like you, Wright. You yourself were a child not so long ago. But you never got to _be_ a child. You never got to go to school or have fun with your friends or play pranks on your neighbors. Your whole life was decided for you before you learned to walk or talk or think for yourself. A life as a living weapon, a dispensable piece of property, just another cog in the machine.”

Wright's lips parted, and he made a tentative move to rise from the couch. ”Ma'am…”

Padmé placed a gentle hand on his forearm; guiding, rather than forcing, him to sit back down. ”If you think I'm trying to insult you, to degrade you… you may be right. I haven't done right by you. While I served as Senator, I used to be known as a humanitarian, a champion of the weak and the vulnerable, of those unseen and unheard by society. And yet, I didn't see _you._ I didn't hear_ you._ We would gather at the Senate to discuss the clones in terms of numbers and credits, as investments that could either win us a war or run our economy to the ground. No one was questioning the ethics behind breeding men for war. No one was thinking about the men underneath the helmets.” 

She swallowed. Evidently, that was not entirely true. These words were coming from _somewhere._ Perhaps, she _had_ thought about it, only to quickly push all those uncomfortable questions away. It was wartime, and there were always so many other pressing matters at hand. So many other victims. Always something else that she could conveniently preoccupy her mind with. 

”Even now, when you walked into this room, I didn't see you,” she confessed. ”I didn't see a person, I wasn't even seeing an enemy. Before you made me laugh, you were nothing to me. Before you accepted my help and spoke so kindly to me, you were just air, a piece of furniture in this room-shaped nightmare I'm living. Before I saw your face, I didn't see a personality, or a history, or a unique, valuable being.” Hand still resting on Wright's forearm, she squeezed her fingers gently around the armored flesh. ”And even now, I am only speaking to you because I need something from you. Because I think that if I can appeal to you feelings, you might help me. And that's wrong. I see that now. But I promise you. I will return the favor a thousand-fold. I know you want more than this life. You deserve more than this life. And so do all your clone brothers, who have been used, exploited, ignored and mistreated their whole lives. I can help you. Emperor Palpatine is going to have me executed very soon. But I want to live and help you. If you help me escape now, I promise you, Wright, I will dedicate my life to helping you and your brothers. When I'm back in power, I will make it my mission to liberate you from everything that binds you, everything that has kept you down. I want you to have a choice in this life. I want you to be free.” 

The clone stared back at her with widened eyes, looking rather overwhelmed. Padmé leaned in closer. ”Do _you_ want to be free?”

Retracting his arm half-way from her clasp, Wright gave a hesitant shake of the head. ”I… ma'am, I can't. I'm sorry.” 

Padmé drilled her gaze into his. ”That's not what I asked.”

”I… I can't,” Wright stammered, making another attempt at getting up before remembering his ankle. And yet, he still didn't reach for his comm. 

”I asked you what you _want,_” Padmé reiterated. ”Do you want to be free?” She gestured around herself, ”Or is _this_ how you're going to live and die?" Her voice broke a little when she added, "For us, it could be."

”I…” Wright's gaze wandered to the other side of the room. ”The Emperor… he's really going to take your kids from you?” 

A choked breath escaped Padmé's lips as she nodded. 

Wright wrenched his gaze away from her pleading eyes and rubbed his palms against his temples. ”This is crazy,” he mumbled. ”I never even… I never even dared… to dream of a different life.”

”But you _have_ thought about it,” Padmé guessed, a hopeful note seeping into her voice. ”You must have wondered. All those clones who left during the war.” She thought back to the fateful night on Derra. ”You must have heard about Captain Rex.”

Wright's head bobbed in a nod. And somehow, Padmé could tell he was admitting to more than just having heard about it. She drew a deep breath. ”Do you have a friend, Wright? A friend who has also dared to dream? A friend who's up for anything?” 

There was a flash of something in Wright's eyes that looked like remembrance, or realization. In a cautious voice, he confessed, ”There's Kix, at the medbay.” 

”Medbay?” Padmé echoed. ”But that's perfect.” She withdrew her hand from his lap, giving him space. She had said her part. The choice needed to be his own. ”Are we doing this?”

”…Yeah. I'm in.”

”Thank you, Wright. I promise you, I will not let you down. You have my word. Okay, here's what we're going to do…”

There was no room for doubt, no room for failure. But a strange new determination had risen within Padmé. Naturally, her first priority and most pressing motivation was getting her children to safety, forever out of Palpatine's reach. But as they navigated their way towards the ship docks, a band of fugitives brought together by extraordinary circumstances, she realized just how deep her gratitude ran towards these men who had thrown away their lives to save hers. The obligation of her promise started from here, she realized. She wouldn't let anything happen to them if it was the last thing she did. 

Now, two hours into their hyperspace journey, residual adrenaline is still pumping through her veins as she watches distant stars streak by in the cockpit. Palpatine's threats, the weeks spent cooped up in that windowless, non-descript room… it all seems like a hazy nightmare now. A fond smile plays on her lips as she turns to face the man on the co-pilot's seat. 

”What convinced you?” she asks. 

Wright takes a moment to think. ”I have a soft spot for kids,” he tells her. ”And… I suppose… when you asked me if I had a friend who dreamed of a different life.”

Padmé mirrors his movement as he twists on his seat to face the man sitting behind them on one of the passenger seats. Beside him, Luke and Leia are fast asleep, nestled against each other's tiny bodies as Kix drapes a blanket over their snuffling forms. 

”Both your children are in excellent health, ma'am,” the tattooed man smiles at her. 

”Padmé. Just Padmé,” the young mother rushes to correct. ”Thank you so much.”

Kix's smile falters as his mind wanders to what Wright said. ”The truth is, I've been wanting to defect for a long time,” he confesses. ”I always detested the war, and I detested what the Empire built upon its ashes. But I had nowhere to go – and I couldn't just abandon my brothers. Who would take care of them after I'd gone off to live a meaningless life in hiding?” 

”Wait,” Padmé says slowly, as it strikes her. ”I recognize you. You used to serve under my… with the 501st.” 

Kix nods in affirmation. ”I was transferred to DSC-2 soon after…” He pauses to consider his phrasing, even though everyone in the cockpit seems to know his meaning before a word has been spoken. ”…the General was promoted to his current position. Apparently I wasn't fit to serve as his primary physician anymore.” 

An involuntary blush rises on Padmé's cheeks. ”I was going to say… you used to serve under my husband.” The clone medic raises an eyebrow. ”Wright knows, so you deserve to know as well.”

”Oh,” Kix utters sharply. He casts a furtive glance at the children sleeping beside him, before quickly looking away. 

Padmé shakes her head. ”You don't have to say anything,” she assures him with a wave of her hand. ”It's a complicated situation.” She receives an understanding nod in response. 

”So, Padmé,” begins Wright, ”if you don't mind me asking, where are we going?” 

Padmé is silent for a long moment, gaze flicking from Wright to Kix before wandering dreamily to the window, where thousands of suns and stars sweep past. ”You're free men,” she finally says. ”You can go anywhere you want.” She turns to face them again, fixing her companions with an earnest look. ”But I meant what I said. I intend to devote my life to helping you. And if you want, I can take you to a friend… a friend whom I trust. A friend who will drop everything to help me and any friend of mine.” 

”Sounds like a good friend,” Wright smiles. ”Count me in.”

”Me too,” Kix chimes in. 

-

In the recovery room, Anakin struggles relentlessly, thrashing against his restraints until his flesh bleeds and his breaths grow ragged. Obi-Wan's heart breaks at the sight, over and over, into smaller and smaller pieces until it's nothing but dust and ash. 

_It wasn't supposed to turn out this way. I was to be his liberator, not his jailer. _

_It wasn't supposed to turn out this way… _

Behind him, he hears Rex shift. A warm hand lands on Obi-Wan's shoulder. He twitches under the touch, but doesn't turn away from the holoscreen, his eyes glued to the endless feed of Anakin tossing and twisting and groaning in frustration. 

He has all but forgotten about Rex's presence in the room when the other man speaks. ”Obi-Wan…” His whisper is heavy with sadness and resignation. ”You know what you have to do.”

In one harsh movement, Obi-Wan whips around to face him. In an uncharacteristic burst of frustration, he demands, ”Do I? That's news to me.”

Rex regards him somberly, unfazed by the outburst. ”Have you ever heard the saying… if you love someone, you have to let them go?” 

Obi-Wan is vaguely aware of his lips parting in what must look like a rather stupid expression indeed. A string of distant memories flickers through his head. Oh, the times he would lecture his Padawan on the dangers of attachment, on the necessity of letting go. And yet, here he is, finding that he cannot even half-heartedly pretend to be the same man he was back then. ”No… _no,_” the former Jedi splutters, desperately. ”I can't. We can't. We only just got him back.”

Rex gives a dubious grimace as he cocks his head towards the screen. Anakin's struggles are growing more and more labored as exhaustion begins to wear him down, and still he persists in yanking and pulling at his bindings. ”Did we? Because that looks like a man who'd rather be anywhere but 'back'.”

”We… he would go back to Palpatine,” Obi-Wan argues. ”Report what happened during his captivity. And then… what's to stop Palpatine from re-chipping him?”

”What's to stop him?” Rex repeats. ”Anakin is.” 

”What?”

Rex folds his arms, frowning down at his friend. ”Do you really think Anakin will let him do that, this time?” When Obi-Wan fails to muster an answer, Rex continues, ”We've done our part. We removed the chip, we told him the truth. And whether he has accepted that truth or not… he now knows. He's your student. I'd have expected you to have a little more faith in him.” 

Obi-Wan stares back at his companion. A part of him recognizes the wisdom in his words. And still, he finds himself insisting, in a small voice almost drowned out by his breath, ”No.” 

-

When Obi-Wan enters the recovery room, the fight has finally died within Anakin. He lies still as a stone, a vacant stare trained on the monotone white wall. But as Obi-Wan reaches his bedside, something else catches his attention. Something that he couldn't see through the grainy feed of the holocam. Anakin has been _crying._ His eyes are puffy, his cheeks red and damp, glistening under the light with a sheen of half-dried tears.

Mystified, Obi-Wan considers this. Anakin has made his aversion to being tied down and held prisoner by his supposed enemies perfectly clear… but _tears?_ Is he really so frightened that they should have done something terrible to him, altered his brain or planted something in there? No… that's not it. His old Padawan used to be a crier, but he would never cry out of fear. Not for himself, anyway. His tears were always for someone else. 

And there's only one person in the whole Galaxy who could elicit that reaction in Darth Vader himself. Only one he would cry for. No… not one, but three. 

_”It's your fault! They're dead and it's your fault! Why couldn't you just die?! You took them from me and now you're gonna kill them! You killed them! It's your fault!” _

And suddenly, Obi-Wan knows what happened. He knows what Anakin has been trying to tell him all along.

”Anakin…” he whispers in a shuddering voice, drawing no reaction from him. He keeps on staring at the wall like it is his sole connection to reality. Obi-Wan clasps a hand around the railing, leaning over the durasteel separating them, a new urgency creeping into his voice. ”She… she never left. She never left Derra. Padmé… Padmé and the twins.” Anakin turns his head to glare at him. ”You found them. And now… your Master is using them against you. Am I not correct?” His tone has grown intense. ”He gave you an ultimatum. Either you kill me, or he would harm them. Am I not right, Anakin?”

For a time, Anakin stays silent, never breaking his resentful scowl. Then, minute cracks begin to appear in his mask of unfeeling hostility, and he looks away, burying the side of his head deeper into the pillow. It is with the smallest suggestion of a nod that he finally answers in the affirmative. Then, a choked noise rises from his throat, and his face contorts in a grimace of pure pain and fear. 

Obi-Wan tries to process this new information. _Padmé and the twins… imprisoned by the Empire. Of all the worst-case scenarios… _

Distant images of two innocent faces flash through his mind. Of course, they would be older now… long past their second birthday. Living as a hermit on Colstev, Obi-Wan would try his hardest not to look back on his time on Derra, helping to look after the newborn twins while their mother was unable to. But suddenly, it doesn't matter how much or how little he has thought about her or the twins for the past two years. Suddenly, the realization stabs through him like a knife – that he would, without hesitation, give his life for Anakin's children, for their mother so she may live and take care of them.

He quickly tamps down the senseless impulse to blame Anakin. How could he possibly have foreseen this, let alone prevented it from happening with a mind control device buried in his brain? His yearning for his family is only natural, and possibly the most significant aspect of 'the old Anakin' that still lives on within Darth Vader. He wants to blame Padmé for staying on Derra and himself for unwittingly revealing her location, before putting himself together and releasing his panic into the Force. Assigning blame is a pointless exercise and a waste of time. A distraction that the real villain, their mutual enemy, would only welcome. 

Obi-Wan takes one look at Anakin, lying helplessly on the bed, suppressing sobs behind clenched jaws – and in that moment, he knows what to do. He sees the alarm erupt on the young man's face as his old Master draws the lightsaber from his belt and ignites it. His lids fly shut when Obi-Wan swings the weapon at him – and through the heavy durasteel of the chains binding his wrists. He has already moved on to the restraints wrapped around his torso when Anakin opens his eyes, widened in confusion. He watches dumbly as blue plasma cuts through his ankle cuffs, before raising his gaze to meet Obi-Wan's. 

Dropping his saber to his side, Obi-Wan holds out his free hand to Anakin. Bemused, Anakin gathers himself into a seated position and stares up at him silently. Finally, without taking Obi-Wan's hand, he stands up from the bed and rubs the raw, bloodied rings etched around his flesh wrist. 

Obi-Wan extends his hand again – the one clasped around his lightsaber, this time. Anakin's eyes flick from the proffered weapon to the calm expression on his old friend's face. 

”This weapon is my life,” he declares. ”Take it.”

A beat of hesitation – and then, a light pressure on his palm as strong fingers wrap around the metal hilt of the deadly weapon. For the next few moments, Obi-Wan fully expects a swift death, braces himself for the sensation of seething plasma lancing through his abdomen. He meant what he said. He would lay down his life to save his friend and everything he holds dear. 

The killing blow never comes. Instead, he sees a tentative understanding dawning on Anakin's face as he surveys the weapon and looks up at the other man. How could he possibly have gotten hold of this weapon unless its owner were dead?

”Go,” Obi-Wan urges. ”Go save her. Go save your family.”

Wordlessly, Anakin brushes past him, heavy footfalls indicating his advance towards the door. Just as he hears the door swish open, Obi-Wan calls to him, his back still turned, ”You know in a different life… perhaps, in all lives but this one… I would come with you. I would be right beside you.”

A moment of silence – then, a low, scarcely audible agreement, ”Yeah.”


	20. Double Trouble

”How fares Operation Twin Skies?” 

Sidious leans over his desk, eyes narrowing at the flickering image of Nala Se cast by his holoprojector, illuminating the otherwise dark room. 

The scientist maintains her usual mask of neutrality, only broken by just the hint of arrogance, of superiority. ”We are completing the final stages, my lord.” 

”And I trust the results have been… satisfactory?” 

”More promising than we ever dared hope for, my lord.” 

Sidious tents his fingers and grins broadly. ”I wouldn't settle for anything less.”

”And neither would we, Lord Sidious.”

The Sith Master's grin turns sour. ”And yet, we are in this situation because our last collaboration… yielded less than perfect results.” 

_No divided loyalties. Strongly receptive to your persuasions._ Sidious scoffs internally as he recalls Dr. Se's marketing spiel. And yet, no amount of persuasion has yet brought Kenobi to a violent end, or even slightly lessened the boy's raging obsession with his pest of a wife. His attachment to that woman remains so strong, the Sith Master has been forced to postpone her elimination several times, as it might just prove the final straw that breaks the kaadu's back and fries the last working circuit in the overpriced slip of code buried inside the boy's head. 

”I have been highly transparent with you from the very beginning, Lord Sidious,” Dr. Se states, the picture of calmness. ”I don't know how you would define perfection, but I am in the business of manufacturing humans, not droids. And I have to say… I find your list of requirements confusing and internally contradictory. On one hand, you want someone hot-blooded, fierce; a devoted student who embodies the Sith ideals. Which requires a certain… mental leeway for those traits to be able to develop and flourish. On the other… you want a mindless slave. So which is it?” 

Sidious eyes shrink to slits. ”I thought we had already established that I am not one to settle. Which is why we're having this conversation. The answer is… _both._”

Nala Se nods. ”So the legend of Darth Vader is truly at an end?”

Leaning back on his chair, Sidious relaxes a little as he is reminded just how many steps he is ahead of every problem, and how far along the solutions are. ”Perhaps,” he intones. ”it is only beginning.”

”It will not be long now, my lord,” Nala Se assures him. 

”I look forward to seeing the finished results.”

Just as the blue image winks away, the blast doors whir open and the light from the hallway illuminates the room once more. Without waiting to be prompted, a stormtrooper crosses the room with anxious strides, saluting as he stops short of the Emperor's desk.

”My deepest apologies, Your Highness. I know you asked not to be disturbed. But we have a situation. Prisoners 7762, 7763 and 7764 never returned from their scheduled health examination on DSC-1. And we've just received word from DSC-1 that their arrival was never confirmed, either.” 

Sidious takes a moment to digest this. Then, he takes another moment. He needs two entire moments, nothing short of an outrageous waste of time, because the words don't make any sense. Because this level of incompetence at his crown jewel, the cutting-edge twin facilities of DSC-1 and DSC-2, is simply impossible. ”I am going to put this in simple terms,” he finally snarls out in a voice of sheer ice. ”There is no scheduled health examination for prisoners 7762, 7763 and 7764.” 

”But… we just checked, and it was right there in the system, Your Highness,” the trooper splutters. ”Admission note 3421-A -” 

In one abrupt motion, Sidious shoots up from the seat and throws a looming black shadow over the shrinking man before him. ”I want you to listen to me very carefully and follow my instructions to the letter.” 

Fortunately, he _is_ always a few steps ahead of every problem.

-

Frantic questions flit through Vader's head as he, at astronomical speed and still far, far too slowly, glides through hyperspace. Even as he sits in silence, broken only by the low rumble of the engines, his thoughts scream for answers. 

_Why would Obi-Wan let me go?_

_Why would Obi-Wan have captured, rather than killed, me in the first place?_

Burying his face in his hands, Vader breathes into his palms. The thing is, he already _has_ the answers. Only… he cannot accept them. 

_But why… why would Obi-Wan lie about something like that? Control chips, and… _

_How much he_ cares… 

Vader stifles the thought as soon as it emerges. Instead, he wills himself to wonder, _why, why in all the hells would I let Obi-Wan live?_

Does he not hate the man? Had Obi-Wan not offered his life – his family's salvation – on a silver platter? The fact that he chose to release and not defend himself against his would-be slayer should have had no bearing on Vader's actions. Darth Vader is bound by no codes of honor. He has killed plenty of defenseless victims before. 

Vader's gaze wanders to the lightsaber resting on the passenger seat of his returned vehicle, as the realization sinks in that he is about to trick his Master,_ lie_ to his Master. And only because… because back in that base, staring into the eyes of the closest thing he'd once had to a father, eyes that had watched over his journey from boy to man (to monster), Vader had found himself overwhelmed with a feeling he couldn't then identify. 

He had not _wanted_ to kill Obi-Wan. 

With a vehement shake of his head, Vader banishes the idea. A moment of weakness. Of insanity. 

_In a different life…_ He recalls the gentleness in his old Master's voice. _Perhaps, in all lives but this one…_ He pictures the regret shadowing his features. _I would come with you. I would be right beside you._

And in another moment of weakness, of insanity, Vader finds himself wishing he were living any other life. 

-

Phindar is a medium-sized planet located near the Mandalore sector on the Outer Rim, with a warm climate and a harrowing history. Padmé remembers visiting the capital once, during the Clone Wars, on a relief mission in the wake of an invasion by the Separatists. Only two months after, a second attack followed and undid all their hard work, which had by no means amounted to miracles to begin with. Anakin had been away on a campaign. It was the only time Padmé ever took three whole days off not to spend time with him, but to cry in her apartment. 

By the evening of the third day, she was all cried out and tired of wallowing in her privileged bubble of self-pity. Desperate to hear another being's voice, she had debated calling Anakin, before deciding against it for fear that his voice might actually bring her to tears again. Bail was busy with work and Sola with her family and Jar Jar would get overly emotional… 

”Padmé! It's been so long!”

She and Sabé had ended up talking for hours on end, into the small hours of the night like the teenagers they had been not so long ago. About the war, their lives, the small joys that made it all worth it. (Oh, how her heart had ached to tell her about Anakin.)

Their conversation had already been winding down by the time she had brought up Phindar, having debated for a long minute whether to even do so. Nothing could have prepared her for what Sabé told her next. It turned out that former handmaiden had also led a humanitarian mission to Phindar following the first invasion, their respective trips having been only days apart. The old friends had often joked about having morphed into the same person during their time as Queen and decoy, but this was just remarkable! 

Their dwindling conversation took an intense turn from there as the two women swapped their experiences and mourned the victims together. Before they knew it, they had already started planning another relief mission to Phindar, and half of the neighboring systems while they were at it. 

It never came to be. The war continued to keep them both busy and tear them into opposite directions across the Galaxy. Their momentarily rekindled friendship already felt distant by the time Padmé learned she was pregnant and her world began its slow descent into turmoil. 

Some two months after Obi-Wan's departure from Derra, Padmé had once more found herself in the same situation: lonely and missing familiar voices. Only this time, she couldn't just pick up a comm and call someone. This desolate thought made her miss Sabé in particular, as she fondly recalled the last time they had spoken. On a whim, Padmé had proceeded to look her up on the Holonet, expecting to find nothing. Much to her amazement, she had learned that the former handmaiden was currently the leader of a non-profit organization based in Laressa, Phindar, sending volunteers across the Galaxy to the aid of impoverished communities in post-war recovery efforts. A quick look-over told Padmé that their activities were technically legal by Imperial laws, but lately they had fallen under suspicion of having connections to anti-Empire networks and rebel cells. 

_Well, whatever that sly old creature has done, she is about to add 'harboring fugitives' to her list of crimes,_ Padmé smirks to herself as they plunge into Phindar's humid atmosphere. Conveniently for the weary travelers, she isn't exactly hiding. The main office and base of operations of her organization is located right in the heart of the capital city. Leave it to Sabé to be sneaky in broad daylight. 

Of course, she could be away, she could be anywhere across the expanse of the Galaxy right now. Still, Padmé suspects it will only take one call to secure a generous welcome for their little band of fugitives. 

”You know, you're being awfully mysterious about your friend here, Padmé,” observes Wright as they walk into the main lobby, an open, circular space with reflective floors and high stained-glass windows with Naboo-inspired images. 

”Yeah, should we be nervous?” Kix inquires. ”Or is too late to ask that?” 

Padmé grins at their banter, continuing to keep her lips sealed. In her arms, Leia gapes around the lobby in amazement, pointing out the colorful reflections from the windows to her brother, who snuggles up to Kix's shoulder, exhausted and cranky and muttering something about his head hurting. 

The receptionist seems taken aback when Padmé introduces herself by her own name before asking for Sabé, but proceeds to immediately instruct the visitors to take the turbolift to the third floor, the first door to the right. 

When they reach the door in question, Padmé lifts Leia by the armpits and hands her over to Wright. ”She's not a hugger, but she'll hug me.” Wright has barely propped his precious load into a comfortable position when the door flies open and a curtain of long brown hair dashes out. 

”Padmé!” Sabé sighs in delighted disbelief as she takes in her old friend and former Queen with a profoundly moved expression on her features, still so similar to her own. Tears spring to Padmé's eyes as they crash into an embrace. ”Padmé, it's really you!” 

”How many are you seeing?” she hears Kix inquire from Wright. 

”Is there a secret female batch we don't know about?”

”Sabé, these are my friends, Kix and Wright,” she introduces as they break apart, gesturing at the two men. 

”Pleasure,” Sabé nods respectfully. Just as she moves in to shake Kix's hand, Luke seems to snap alive from his daze and fixes the new acquaintance with an awestruck stare. ”Two Mommy,” he declares happily, reaching for Mommy number two with his chubby hands. This earns a boisterous laughter from the grown-ups. In Wright's arms, Leia just gapes, mildly horrified. 

”Meet my son and daughter,” Padmé smiles at an increasingly stunned Sabé. ”Luke, Leia… this is your aunt Sabé?” she suggests with a playful grimace. 

”Prince, Princess,” Sabé greets, doing a little traditional Nabooian curtsy before turning back to their mother. ”Padmé…” 

”I know, I know, you must have so many questions. But so do we, these remarkable gentlemen in particular. Is there anywhere we could just sit and talk, in peace?”

”Peace is hard to come by these days, huh,” Sabé quips before gesturing along the hallway. ”But I think I got you covered. Follow me.” 

”Are they just not going to address it?” Kix wonders as they pad along the hallway. 

”Maybe twins run in the family?” Wright proposes.

With a grin, Sabé spins around and jerks her thumb in Padmé's direction. ”She's the impostor, I swear,” she mouths at the clones. Seeing genuine horror seize their faces, she adds, ”Wait for my signal.” 

There's a burst of laughter, and the men exchange disconcerted looks.

-

It isn't until Lord Vader's (exceedingly belated) return is announced that it occurs to Sidious. Perhaps… the kaadu's back has proved far more brittle than he initially estimated? 

Sensing his approach, Sidious stands up from his throne and stalks across the room, stopping short of the blast doors that pull apart to reveal a dark-clad figure. In one sweep of his arm, his wayward student shoots towards the ceiling in a flurry of robes and flailing feet. 

”Is this your doing?” Sidious demands from the boy, inch by inch tightening his invisible grip around his throat as he wheezes and writhes in the air. A loud clang momentarily shifts his attention as something rolls away from Vader's hand and across the floor. 

The Sith Master frowns as he identifies the object as Kenobi's lightsaber. 

A momentary doubt causes Sidious to release his hold of the wheezing boy and drop him to the floor like a sack of rotten apples. Sweaty curls hang over his face as he coughs and scrambles to his hands and knees. 

”I want the truth, Vader,” Sidious hisses. ”Is Kenobi dead?”

Below him, the pitiful figure continues to cough until his lungs seem to tear apart and sputter in small pieces up his throat. ”Answer me!” Sidious thunders. 

Alongside the echoes of Sidious' booming command, Vader's croaks gradually subside into silence. Something strange tugs at Sidious in the Force, then – a momentary hesitation. A sense of… strain, of conscious effort, as though the boy is struggling to get the word out. ”… Yes.” 

Sidious raises his brow folds. ”I don't believe you. Let's try this again. Did you orchestrate your family's escape?”

A beat of silence passes before he receives his next answer. ”Escape?” 

”Better.” He circles Vader's crumpled form. ”Well, it seems you're only half a disappointment. Still…” Sidious' hand shoots up to close even tighter around Vader's windpipe, once again leaving him dangling and kicking empty air. ”I demand perfection.”

This time, he offers no respite, not until Vader's bulging eyes disappear behind heavy, descending curtains and he falls into oblivion. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please don't hate me… Eventual Comfort is almost just around the corner! <3 like, two steps forward and you'd actually be kissing it.


	21. Fire

When Anakin clambers to his hands and knees, he no longer feels the smooth surface of the floor beneath his palms. Instead, the coarse texture of hot sand rubs against his skin. Dazzling sun assaults his eyes when he lifts his gaze, dividing into two spherical shapes as his vision regains focus. Far out in the horizon, floating between the blazing orbs is a hazy outline of a woman. His heart recognizes her first, though his eyes are quick to catch up. There was a time when he would see that shape every day, waiting at the threshold of their humble abode, peering across the bustling, dusty streets as her little son made his way home after a hard day's work. 

”Mom!” Anakin calls out into the distance, shielding his eyes against burning light. He breaks into a run, but the ground seems to shift under his feet and bring him no closer to the elusive form of his mother. The futile effort leaves him doubled over in exhaustion as he finally skids to a stop.

”This isn't a memory,” he notes, sliding his eyes across the surreal landscape. ”Mom, you're really here?”

Hand resting on his brow, he squints into the horizon. She is still so far away, and yet somehow close enough for him to make out her face, discern the doleful smile that teases her lips.

A wave of yearning crashes over Anakin – for in this dream, he _is_ Anakin, there is no point in pretending otherwise. No point in pretending that every single detail of her kindly features doesn't send a pang of longing through his chest, that the trace of melancholy in her smile doesn't hurt his heart, reduce his disembodied form to the little boy who left her behind and failed her hopes. 

”I'm sorry,” he whispers through stifled, unreal tears. ”I'm sorry I left. I'm sorry I pushed you away. I'm sorry –” His voice dissolves away from his wobbling lips. Shmi just shakes her head.

”Mom,” Anakin begins then. ”There's something I need to ask you.” He forces himself to lift his chin as dark clouds mass together to obscure the blinding sun. The sky grows murky, the air chilling to the bone. ”Am I a slave?” 

A series of images flashes through his mind, distorted voices echoing in his ears. Little Ani, holding a vibroblade over his exposed arm. His mother, tapping a finger against his forehead, reassuring him that his mind would always belong to him. The boy in the desert, savoring his first and last taste of freedom moments before it was ripped from the severed extremities of his body. His mother's words, comforting him, _You couldn't have known. No one could have known. _

”Is… is that why you sent me those memories? Is that what you tried to tell me? Have I… have I become a slave once more?” 

Shmi's smile is no longer melancholy. There is such a profound sense of sadness, such deep and heartfelt sorrow in her expression that the sheer impact of it could bring kingdoms to ruin. And yet, it is still a smile. Warm, loving, almost painfully caring and gentle. 

She spreads out her arms, beckoning him to take refuge in their embrace. And Anakin runs to her, illusory tears streaming down his cheeks, uncaring of the shifting ground beneath his feet. He buries himself in her warmth, crying into her shoulder, ”I can't do this, Mom. I'm not strong enough. I'm not strong like you.” 

A gentle hand strokes back his hair, a familiar sensation from so many years ago, recreated to perfection. 

”He has this power over me. I can't fight it. I'm not strong enough.” He pulls back to meet her eyes. ”I can't do this, Mom. I can't do this alone.” 

The sadness melted away, there's a sense of earnestness in her gaze, a firm reassurance. When she embraces him again, the sensation ceases to feel like a memory, an imagined simulation of a distant past. She is real and present, and she never stopped loving her son. 

-

When Vader scrabbles into awareness, the sand dissolves from beneath his palms and the hard floor of the throne room once again slides into place as reality builds itself together. What feels like minutes, hours, eternities spent in the comfort of his mother's arms has likely only been seconds, given that he is not dead or chained to the back of a prison cell. Seeing Sidious' shadow looming over him, he throws himself back across the floor. Scornful eyes track his frantic, scrambling movements as Vader crawls away from his Master, supporting himself on one elbow in his still-disoriented state. 

”I… I have questions, too,” he barely manages to rasp out, throat still raw from the choking. 

Sidious makes a derisive noise. ”Do you, now?” 

”You said my family escaped,” Vader croaks out. ”I heard you say it. Is that true? Padmé and the twins… they're not here?”

Sidious licks his lips. There's an odd glint in his eyes that unsettles Vader to his core. ”Yes, this is true.”

A sweep of relief washes over Vader. His family is safe. They're safe. How, or when, or where… it doesn't matter. It doesn't even matter that he's not with them. No, they're better off without him. He could live a thousand lifetimes and never deserve them. _This,_ he thinks, sprawled out on the floor, squirming under the pitiless gaze of his Master, _is what I deserve._

But his questions don't end here.

Vader closes his eyes, mustering every ounce of his… he's not sure what to call it. Courage? Resolve? Nerve? It is what he saw in his mother's eyes, what she transferred onto him in her warm embrace. It is the hardness in Padmé's tone when she confronted him about his Master, the feel of her heated lips meeting his. It is the softness of Obi-Wan's countenance when he held out his very life on the palm of his hand, the sensation of his own fingers brushing against calloused skin as they closed around the encased, pulsating kyber. It is the steady hum of his children's breathing wafting from across the room, their fragile yet grounding weight against his chest. 

It is everything his own mind and body are fighting against, trying their damndest to push down his damaged throat, into the deepest recesses of denial. 

”Did you implant a control chip in my brain?”

Even as the room still sways across his vision, Vader does not miss the shift in his Master's expression, the twitch in the set of his gnarly jaw. He can see the wheels turning in the Sith's head as he looks down at his student, a slight smirk beginning to form at the corners of his lips. 

”And was it…” Vader swallows, steels himself against every resisting muscle in his body. ”…was it so that you could… take away my freedom of choice…” He has to force out each word, feeble and hoarse. ”…and force me to become your apprentice? Your… your servant?”

A ripple runs through the Force as his eyes come up to meet his Master's. But Sidious is no longer twitching or shifting. In fact, he remains almost eerily still, his cruel yellow eyes fastened to his student, as his lips part and confess, ”Yes.” 

Vader's world comes crumbling down. His very soul seems to flee his body and leave only a cold, trembling lump behind. A stinging, wet warmth touches his eyes. 

”N-no,” he stutters, shaking his head, hearing his own, faint voice from lightyears away, seeing his tears glisten against the dim light. ”I chose this. I… I chose this!” he hears himself insisting, desperate for it to be true. He chose this. He chose this life, because if he didn't… 

”I chose this… I chose this.”

He could have been a father. He could have lived together with his family, watched his children grow from infancy.

He could have had it all. He could have chosen differently.

He could have - 

_chosen_ – 

The sound that emerges from his throat is not a cry or a scream. It is barely even a sound at all. What tears forth from his lungs is pure, raw pain. Cradling his head in his hands, Vader lets silent, choking sobs rack his body.

Above him, Sidious is speaking. Moments pass until the vague murmur crystallizes into words. ”… such a great shame, indeed. My partner and I have been debating for some time whether this little pet project of ours has been a success or not. But I believe we've finally reached an agreement. The product works, technically – only you were already spoiled goods when it was inserted into your brain. Latching onto your,” his voice shudders with disgust, ”pathetic, wholesome fantasies about fatherhood, never letting go of your attachment to your… friend. How much we could have achieved together. But my patience is at an end.” He paces closer to Vader's collapsed form. ”I gave you so many chances, Vader. But you're simply more trouble than you're worth. But that's about to change.” 

Vader tries to scramble away, but his arms give way under his weight. ”What more could you possibly do to me?”

Sidious quirks up his brow folds. ”To_ you?_ Not much.” He circles the weakened, crumpled remnants of his apprentice. ”Perhaps, I shall indulge in a final… low blow.” With that, he whips around in a sudden sweep and brings his boot down on Vader's chest, throwing him against the floor. Winded, Vader heaves a shallow gasp. Under the pressure of his foot, the sore, bloodied markings on Vader's chest scream out with pain. A cruel gleam bears down on him from above. ”Make sure you'll die knowing that upon his arrival here, I had your son implanted with a tracker chip, which I have now activated, and as we speak, your family is being tracked down by a very special agent of mine. You have lost, Anakin Skywalker. You refused the Galaxy. Did you really think I was going to let you have the consolation prize?”

”You…” New horror flares within Vader. His Master never bluffs. He is always prepared to carry out every threat and demonstrate the truth of every boast. Beneath the boot on his chest, Vader's heart races wildly. And around it… a fresh anger begins to gather. 

No, not anger.

Anger, courage, resolve, nerve… all words too simple, too limited in scope to describe it. It is the storm that stirs in his core, the force that erupts from his fingertips, the wind that seizes his assailant and throws him across the room. It is the fire that courses back into his veins and restores strength to his legs, that raises him back to his feet and pumps blood into his ears.

The world clears. His vision tunnels. Towering over the stunned form of his Master, Vader demands through his teeth, ”You chipped my _son?_” 


	22. Operation Twin Skies

Fury flows through Vader as he advances on the prone form of his Master, his black robe thrown haphazardly over him as he recovers from the unexpected retaliation. 

”He's a little boy!” Vader yells from the depths of his hoarse lungs, shaking with white-hot rage. ”He's _my_ boy! You stay away from him!_ Stay away from my family!_” 

”Well, well, well,” Sidious intones, astonishment turning to amusement as he throws himself up to his feet. ”You disappoint _and_ impress me, apprentice mine.”

_”I am no apprentice of yours!_” Vader screams in protest, one hand extending to summon Obi-Wan's lightsaber from where it fell earlier while the other intuitively reaches for his belt. Contrasting colors burst alive on either side of him, cutting into the air like mismatched scissors. ”You _stole_ me!” he accuses as he draws closer to Sidious, who proceeds to raise a red saber of his own. ”You stole my life, you stole my _mind!_”

Their blades meet against a backdrop of infinite space, blues and reds blending against the length of the panorama window. Behind the seething lock of blades, gleaming eyes regard Vader with a crazed mirth. ”But you will not touch them,” Vader vows, ”Not again. Never again!”

”Foolish boy,” Sidious retorts, expertly fending off Vader's vehement attempts to break the lock that separates them. ”In the end, I always get what I want. Your children, your powers… even_ you._ And make no mistake – you are still mine, in more ways than you have the capacity to imagine.” 

No sooner has he made this claim than Vader feels an invisible grip wrench him from his feet and send him flying across the room. The back of his head slams hard against the wall as he lands. Hands still clenched around his dual blades, Vader is halfway back to his feet when the movement comes to an abrupt stop. Only as the echoes of his Master's booming command reach his ears does it register that the action is not voluntary. 

”Put down your weapons.” 

Vader watches helplessly as his hands come loose around the dual sabers, dropping to his feet and clattering across the floor.

”Don't move.”

Smugness radiates from Sidious as he crosses the room and stops just a few paces short of his pupil's immobilized form. Muscles clenched into place, Vader just manages to swivel his neck to meet his sadistic gaze. His lips quiver as they grind out the question, ”Why… _how?_ Obi-Wan said… he said he took it out.” 

Moving in closer, Sidious reaches to grab Vader's chin. ”'Took it out?'” he repeats, curiously, squeezing Vader's cheeks together and pulling him within inches of his foul breath. ”Took _what_ out? Your obedience, your natural subservience? Your complete willingness to submit to the first gracious Master who offers you purpose?” He scoffs, shoving Vader's head back as he turns away. ”Please. You were born a slave, and now…” He halts in his tracks, a low chuckle bubbling under his breath. ”…you will pick up your weapon and die as one.”

This time, Vader can feel it. The electrical impulse that travels through his nerves and fills him with a near-irresistible urge to comply. And how easy would it be, to just let that impulse carry him away and take him to a final rest. Because Sidious is right. Servitude, obedience – it's all he's ever known. His early years slaving away for Watto. Growing into adolescence under the watchful eye of the Jedi, denying his own identity in the pursuit of a greater good, a higher purpose. And finally, falling into Palpatine's clutches like the easy prey he was. 

And how diligently he has served all of them. How obediently he has always done his duty. All that hard work, and what did it amount to? 

Death. An endless cycle of decay and destruction. His mother, dead. The Tuskens, massacred. The Jedi, slaughtered. Death follows him everywhere, devouring everything he touches, but never touching him, keeping him fettered to this cursed existence. 

And he's tired. It's taken him this long to realize how tired he is. Tired of killing, tired of hurting, tired of living a life that has never been his own while ending countless others. And already, he's tired of fighting back, tired of fighting for himself. Why should he fight for such a wretched excuse for a life that only ever brought death, pain and misery to the world? 

_Because… _

Obi-Wan's saber shoots to his palm with an electrifying thwack. His lids fly shut at the contact. Through the mass of black, innocent eyes look up at him. 

_Because I am no longer fighting for myself. _

-

”Come on, Luke, open your eyes. Please, just for a little while longer.” Padmé sighs as her little son only pinches his lids shut tighter, holding him gently in place by the shoulders so he can't squirm away from the bed. She throws a lamenting look to Kix, who is bent down next to her, holding a slit-lamp between two fingers. ”I'm sorry. He's usually so obliging.” 

Kix flashes a little smile and pats his patient apologetically on the arm. ”Well, I got a pretty good look already. Nothing appears to be wrong with his eyes…” The medic's lips twist into a thoughtful grimace. ”…and his reaction doesn't seem like light-sensitivity to me, either. So he doesn't usually get headaches?” 

”No,” Padmé confirms as she releases her son and whispers out a quick, ”You did well.” Rather than toddle away, though, Luke proceeds to throw his arms around his mother's neck and squeeze as hard as he can. Padmé hugs him back just as tightly, caressing his hair in soothing motions. As they sit like this, the young mother casts a passing look to Leia, gazing out the hotel room's window on her tiptoes, ”Both of them have always been perfectly healthy.” 

Kix shrugs. ”All I could find is that fading scar on the back of his head. And that one has to be several weeks old, at least.”

Padmé bites her lip, one hand coming to rest pensively on her chin while the other continues to hold her son. ”He's always been a little accident-prone,” she muses. ”But I don't… it must have happened when we were captured. But it still doesn't explain…” She trails away, anxiety eating at her chest. Still, she refrains from voicing these feelings, as the last thing she wants is to add to her ailing boy's distress. 

”How's the ankle, Wright?” she takes the opportunity to inquire from the other clone as he steps gingerly out of an adjacent fresher. 

”Oh, just fine, thanks,” Wright replies, almost sheepishly as he glances at Luke. ”The painkillers really helped. Just a little hobbled still.”

At the mention of painkillers, Padmé looks up at Kix hopefully. The medic guesses her thoughts and shakes his head. ”Look, I think we're gonna have to have your friend arrange us a visit to the medcenter. With the proper scanning equipment, and –”

As though on cue, the door flies open to uncover a very enthusiastic-looking Sabé, who sails into the room with her long cape of hair billowing behind her. ”I found him!” she announces brightly. 

For a moment, Padmé just stares at her dumbly, before the_ what_ and _who_ sink in and she jumps up from the floor. ”You did?” she gasps.

”I tell you, it wasn't easy,” Sabé admits, reaching up to clasp both Padmé's hands in hers and shaking them joyfully. ”But I found him, I found Obi-Wan Kenobi!”

”He's on his way here?” 

”Actually, he specifically requested we travel_ there,_” Sabé clarifies. ”He said he's… expecting someone.”

_Anakin!_ Padmé's mind supplies before she can question the rationality of the idea. But then… who else could it be? What if her husband has finally returned to his senses and decided to come home? If she had been enthusiastic about the prospect of seeing Obi-Wan again before, it is this crazy, wonderful thought that sends her over the edge. 

”Well, what are we waiting for? Let's go!” Her enthusiasm wanes quickly as she remembers Luke's situation. She spins around to trade looks with Kix. ”We should really stop by the medcenter first, right?” She receives a grave nod in answer. 

”The medcenter?” Sabé echoes, glancing worriedly at Luke. ”This isn't about the headache, is it?”

”Afraid it is,” Padmé laments. 

Sabé nods understandingly before turning to Wright. ”We'll get you a pair of crutches while we're at it.” 

”Thank you, Pad… Sabé,” Wright fumbles, earning a laugh from the room and injecting some much-needed levity into the generally fraught mood. ”Sabé,” he repeats. ”I swear you two are still freaking me out. And this is coming from a clone.”

-

Vader just barely catches his Master's blade as he swings around, hissing sparks of plasma shooting in all directions. ”As you wish, Master,” Vader spits. ”Then I shall happily die as a slave… and start anew as someone else.” His hand reaches out and summons the red saber to join its foil. 

Sidious cackles. ”So be it, someone else. Let us find out if you're as weak as your predecessor.”

One thing is for sure – Sidious is the farthest thing from weak. Having never really witnessed his Master handle a lightsaber, let alone been on the receiving end of it, Vader does not expect such speed nor such precision from the gnarly, aged creature. But the dark side permeates his movements, lending itself for swift, fluid motions that threaten to cut through Vader's defense like freshly sharpened daggers. 

But the true battle is being fought inside his head – there persists a part of Vader that doesn't want to defend himself at all, a part that manifests as insidious whispers and urges, telling him to yield, to drop on his knees and take it. To accept his death as just another punishment for daring to fall out of line. 

Vivid flashbacks flicker through his head as he crosses his dual blades into a defensive position, blocking Sidious' deadly slash at his head. He recalls the feel of razor-edged transparisteel cutting into his skin, carving out an oath to live by forevermore. He feels the chilly breeze crawling on his skin, his body stripped bare for his Master to shame, mutilate, humiliate. Kick, beat and electrocute within an inch of his life, then put back together again and again so he could be of more use to his Master. Of more entertainment to his Master. 

Sidious seems to sense his thoughts, shifting to a one-handed grip and extending his freed hand until sparks of lightning start to hiss out. Vader presses his heels into the ground, crossing his dual blades into a tight lock and shielding his body from the onrush of electricity that threatens to push through. Jets of destructive energy crackle though the air and paint the room in bright blue flashes. Just the sheer pressure of it, the crushing, overwhelming force behind the charge would be enough to bring Vader down and envelop him in a world of torture if he were to let up now. And yet, it is the mere sound of the sizzling lightning that tests his resolve, the subconscious signal of imminent punishment. Punishment he deserves. Punishment he has no choice but to accept. The onslaught of lightning is an insignificant flicker compared to the electrical impulses that torment his mind, demanding his submission. 

And still, he persists, hands shaking with exertion as he grips his sabers tighter and pushes forward. Forced to give ground, Sidious' lightning tails away before vanishing with a final zap. He bares his yellow teeth. ”Impressive.”

”Shut up!” Vader screams, voice cracking from emotion. ”I don't want your approval, you monster!” He swings his blue blade carelessly to the side, blocking with its red counterpart as the adversaries resume their sword dance. 

As their blades continue to crash together, it occurs to Vader, hitting him like a plasma bolt through the heart. He'd let himself get distracted by his anger, his own pain and humiliation at Sidious' hands. But this was never about him, this is about – 

”Where are they?!” he demands, the veins in in throat bulging out. ”_Answer me!_ Where are they?!”

”How should I know?” Sidious sneers in response. ”It's called delegating tasks. And I do believe my associate is –”

”It's called _slavery!_” Vader yells back, aiming a blow at the Sith Lord's neck, which he deftly dodges. ”That's what your Empire is built upon! Your 'associate' is a slave, just as I was! A slave,_ a slave!_” His voice is but a garbled string of spit and fury now. 

There is that odd glint again, flashing in Sidious' eyes, making the hair stand up on the back of Vader's neck. ”Then why not let him keep them, if you're as similar as you believe,” he taunts. 

Vader's rage flares ablaze. He'd forgotten again – why he's here, what he's fighting for. His opponent – his _slaver_ – had to remind him. He can't stand it, not the mere thought of it. He's furious beyond belief, beyond all stretches of human capability. It is as though all the rage he has not been capable of feeling for so long, locked into an inaccessible place by the constraints of the chip, swept under a dark blanket by his Master's boot, is bubbling to the surface and boiling over the edge.

Jaws clenching into a snarl, he charges with new vigor. Slashing furiously, he puts his entire being into the assault; his body, his mind, his speed and his skill, his youth and his experience. But presiding over all that, all the various aspects comprising his deadly attack, there is but one master, guiding his movements. Filling him up, burning in his core, lending him an ice-cold focus. The dark side of the Force flows through his nostrils like air, through his body like blood, breathes as his lungs and pumps as his heart. It becomes the blade in his hand, coursing through the scarlet saber with practiced ease. It travels through him and bleeds into the pure, untainted structures of the other half of his weapon. 

Through the red haze suffusing his vision, he sees it in Sidious' eyes. A rising alarm, the slow realization. That he created a monster and thought he could keep it on a leash. That he fashioned a force of nature and was foolish enough to imagine he could contain it in a glass tube.

The glass shatters and a world of pain is released from its confines. With one precise slash, the red length of plasma catches the Sith Master in the upper thigh and shears through withered flesh and bone. With an agonized howl, Sidious loses balance as his left leg is severed from his body and hurled across the air, draped in a torn length from the black hem of his robe. 

Sidious lands in a writhing heap on the floor, his saber rolling from his clasp. Clipping the borrowed blue to his belt, Vader calls his opponent's crimson weapon to his freed hand. Standing over the moaning, defeated form of his once-master, Vader's first response is to… laugh. It's a clipped, breathy laugh; one of relief, almost. And he has great cause to be relieved. He did it. He's finally free. Free of this despicable being who stole so many years of his life, who used him and tortured him, treated him as lesser than the dirt beneath his boot… 

As Vader moves in for the killing blow, he catches Sidious' gaze. Underneath the fog of pain, there is a certain resignation… almost a happy acceptance. The Emperor has met his match – he's met his superior. All that remains now is to greet death with grace. 

A sudden burst of anger freezes Vader in his tracks. He takes a half-step back. A graceful death is better than this lowly worm deserves. 

_No… _

He wants him to suffer. He wants him to know just a fraction of the torment, of the shame and humiliation he's put him through. He wants him to – 

”Cut off your other leg,” Vader commands on a whim. He tosses the red saber to Sidious, who catches it reflexively even in his pained state. He looks up at Vader in horror. 

Vader holds out his hand, grasping hold of the Force, plunging it into the far reaches of the dark side, and then further still, until it pierces the sallow skin of Sidious' forehead and reaches the rotten depths of his mind. A twisted grimace forms on the Sith Master's face as he tries to resist. But his mind has been weakened by the defeat, reduced to a hollow wasteland of rapidly fading ambitions. 

What Vader does next is no delicate mind trick, and only marginally similar to the coercive probing technique he used on Obi-Wan. Twisting his fingers into a claw, he tightens his grip around the old man's mind and quite literally bends it to his will. Sidious wails through his narrowly parted lips. 

”I said,” Vader growls, ”cut off the damn leg, _now!_” 

Whimpering pitifully, Sidious complies, bringing the seething length of his own blade down on his remaining thigh and lopping off the limb with one downward push. He yowls out in pain, swaying as his balance shifts before finding precarious purchase against his trembling arms. 

Vader's fingers shudder with satisfaction as he feels the power surging through them, clenching tightly around the malleable texture of his victim's mind. 

”Now lean forward,” he orders. ”No, _fall_ forward.”

Sidious stares up at him helplessly. Before his mouth can open to beg for mercy, Vader squeezes his fist together and the Sith Lord winces. _”Fall forward!”_ he screams out, and Sidious falls over his leg stumps and drops down onto his stomach, shaking. 

Vader moves in closer. ”Lower,” he orders, and the Sith Lord does as he is told. ”Lower. Lower,” he keeps on demanding until Sidious' mouth touches the floor. 

”Tell me, my Master,” he then asks mockingly, ”are you always this… _squeamish_ around bodies?”

Sidious' heavy breath coasts over the floor. His old bones tremble. His malformed lips wobble against the floor, casting distorted shapes on the reflective surface. It takes Vader a moment to realize they are trying to form words. His last words. 

Vader's saber seems to activate of its own accord as anger grips at him again. He does not want to grant this animal the luxury. But he is just a little too slow. He cannot escape hearing Darth Sidious' final proclamation before bringing his lethal red down on the wizened folds of his neck, ”You will always be… just as replaceable as the rest.”

Then, it's over. Sidious' head drops from his slumped shoulders and rolls over to Vader's feet. In a final burst of pent-up rage, Vader kicks the foul thing across the room, all the way to the base of the dais upon which sits a newly vacated throne. 

Rational thought returns to Vader slowly as he draws heavy gasps of air, a mess of entangled emotions. His head begins to spin, incapable of processing what just happened. His legs buckle underneath, unable to support his swaying weight. He falls to his knees, over the mangled remains of his Master, over the man who used to strike such terror in him… who used to rule over his very will, his every action and emotion… whom, mere minutes ago, he'd bowed to… whose favor and forgiveness he'd sought, whose punishment he was ready to accept… before… before… 

_Luke!_

_Padmé, Leia!_

Vader's stomach lurches. Nausea crawls up his throat.

_No, no, no… _

He springs up from the floor and runs over to the throne, where his Master's severed head rests at the base. As though that would help him now. As though the torn heap of dead brain tissue is capable of telling him where to find his family. Because he knew, he had to have known. Padmé, Luke, Leia… they were within his reach, and he threw them away like dirt. And for what? A few moments of hollow, twisted gratification that have already disappeared into the continuum of time and left him with nothing but a gaping hole in his chest? 

_No, no… _

No. He already wasted critical minutes on bloodlust, and he cannot afford to do the same with despair. Burning resolve fills his heart as he turns away from the mutilated remains of Darth Sidious and never looks back. 

_Hang in there, Luke… Padmé, Leia. _

_I'm coming. _

_I'm finally coming home._

-

Padmé holds Luke tightly to her chest, rocking him back and forth as they soar over the cityscape of Laressa, with Sabé piloting her personal Corellian yacht. Her son has fallen into an irritable silence, tears dried on his cheeks and whimpers quieted in his throat. At one point, Leia comes up to the seat shared by her mother and brother and extends her hand to caress the only spot of Luke she can reach, his lower calf. Padmé greets the gesture with an adoring smile, bending down to wrap one arm around her sweet, wonderful daughter. 

”How did you find him?” she asks Sabé as Leia totters away, seeking a momentary distraction from the solemn silence. 

Sabé's face drops a little. ”Through my contacts on Alderaan. Queen Breha herself, specifically. Incidentally, she named me as one of the two people with whom she was willing to share this information.” She smirks at Padmé knowingly before sobering again. ”Padmé… Bail Organa has been arrested by the Empire.”

”What?”

”It was on the news a few days ago,” Sabé explains. ”I figured you might have missed it.” 

Padmé averts her eyes as memories of her old friend and political ally rise to the forefront of her mind. ”What happened?” 

”Our communication channels are leaking like sieves, apparently,” Sabé sighs. ”We can only hope that…” She cuts herself short with an uneasy shrug. Before Padmé can muster a reply, she points out the medcenter beneath and begins to pull on the yoke, tilting the ship into a descending position. 

They land on the designated docking area of the medcenter, which comprises of several large, cream-colored buildings. The late afternoon finds it sparsely occupied, though not completely deserted of life. Some distance away, another vehicle slides into a spot just as they begin to disembark. 

Leading the party down the ramp, Sabé takes notice of this and frowns. ”That ship… I could have sworn I saw it enter the atmosphere when we took off.”

Stopping in her tracks just as she reaches the ground, Padmé cranes her neck over Luke's shoulder to take another look at the simple, gray freighter. ”What,” she turns to Sabé, alarmed, ”you think it might have been following us?”

”Yes,” Sabé answers tersely, and she is already shoving Kix and his precious load back up the length of the ramp when a dark figure emerges from the foreign ship. ”Everyone back in the ship, now!” 

Padmé is already turning on her heel, tightening her arms around Luke as adrenaline rushes to her feet… only to look a second too long and find herself transfixed by the distinctive gait of the approaching figure. Those long limbs… that dashing silhouette… Recognition flashes through her like lightning. 

She is vaguely aware of Sabé yanking at her shoulder and pleading with her to move. But she finds she cannot. 

He is a couple dozen steps away now, those familiar features coming into focus. 

”Anakin!” Padmé calls out, caution blown away with the wind as her heart leaps with wild joy. Of course, she should still be wary, but Anakin is alone, and most importantly, he would never, ever hurt – 

Her lips miss a breath as some strange impulse compels her to look down and she sees Luke's face - observing the approaching figure with visible fear, almost terror. But only as she feels him trembling against her chest does her heart start racing. 

She looks up at the man, paces away from them now. That curly mane of hair… those delicately handsome features… and the eyes, beautiful in blue and gold alike… 

There's no doubt about it. The man in front of her is Anakin – 

_looks_ like Anakin – 

is _not_ Anakin. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … so, anyway
> 
> this is the start of the last story arc in this fic, which should mean about… 10 or more chapters left to go. (not MANY more than 10 though, and my estimates have been known to be less than accurate anyway, so it could be fewer than 10 etc.) point is, show's not over, folks.


	23. The Creature

Several things transpire in quick succession. Padmé's feet find the ability to move and she whisks herself into a sprint, away from this man, away from this uncanny creature from her strangest daydreams and most horrid of nightmares. Two heartbeats pound as one in her chest as she holds her son tight. The world registers in flashes – Sabé towing her up the ramp, blaster drawn – Kix disappearing inside the ship with Leia – blaster shots darting over her shoulder – feverish footfalls beneath – sounds of confrontation behind her – _snap-hiss_ – at the top of the ramp, just a step away from the safety of the hull, a terrible feeling prompts her to turn around. 

A horrifying sight greets her below. Wright lies motionless on the ground, at the creature's feet, a smoking hole in his back. Armed with a golden lightsaber, the creature steps over the clone's body and lunges for the receding ramp. Sabé reacts quickly and fires another round of shots with one hand while shoving Padmé and Luke into the hull with the other, slowing their pursuer down just barely enough that he misses his window. The docking area grows smaller and smaller and finally vanishes behind the closing hatch, leaving two distinct life forms behind as the ship zooms into the air. 

”No!” Padmé screams at the cold structure that slams into place to separate her from a deadly fall. The sloping position of the ship causes her to drop to her knees, Luke's tiny weight sinking down with her. ”Wright!” she cries, reaching for empty space. ”Wright…” She is only distantly aware of her arm moving, rocking her bawling son in back and forth, back and forth. 

”I didn't… I didn't see what happened,” Sabé admits in a shaky voice, crouching down to place a hand on her former Queen's shoulder. ”I was so focused on getting you to safety, I didn't… I didn't see him. I'm sorry.”

A hand clamped over her mouth, Padmé holds back loud, yowling sobs, hiccuping as narrow streams of tears still manage to trickle though. Her arm loops tighter around Luke, bouncing him back and forth, back and forth. ”I didn't see him,” she echoes, hollowly. ”That was the first thing I said to him. One of the first, anyway…” She looks up at Sabé fervently. ”We have to go back! We have to go back for him! I promised… I promised him…”

”Sh, sh, sh,” Sabé hushes her sharply. ”Padmé, he was a great man. A brave man. The bravest man in –” 

”Brave? He didn't sacrifice himself, if that's what you think,” Padmé snaps back, surprising anger rising from her core. ”You didn't see what happened. I broke his ankle and now he's dead.” Bitter sobs shake her body as she hisses out stiffly, ”I used him like the disposable cannon fodder he was raised as, and now he's dead. I promised him a better future and now he's dead!” She continues to swing Luke back and forth, back and forth, in a mechanical effort to soothe him even while only frightening him further with her hysterics. 

”Padmé,” Sabé utters slowly, ”we had to get the children to safety. There's nothing we could have done.”

Padmé offers a flat nod, though it isn't an indication of agreement, but an attempt to calm herself, ground herself to the present. ”T-thank you,” she rasps feebly. ”You saved us. You and Kix and Wright… you saved us.” She glances towards the open cockpit, where Kix sits silently at the yoke, an equally quiet Leia next to him, peeking uncertainly from behind her seat. ”You saved us…” 

_Saved us from… _

_Anakin?_

The wild impulse to turn the ship around seizes her again. What if she was mistaken, and that _was_ Anakin? Who else could it be? It looked exactly like him, it moved exactly like him, it had a lightsaber, and – 

Her feverish fantasies dissolve away with the momentum that carries them above the clouds. 

Underneath the layers of grief and guilt, her heart already knows the answer. 

That was not the man she knows, as Anakin or as Vader. 

-

On either side of the doorway inside Palpatine's office, his personal red-clad bodyguards lie motionless, with a single clean lightsaber wound speared through each chest.

Vader knows he only has a few minutes at most before the Emperor's remains are found and the station is placed under lockdown. It occurs to him too late that he could have done a much better job of covering his tracks. 

While bypassing the security measures on Palpatine's personal datapad is an inconvenience at best, this is the third datapad he's found inside his desk. Frantically, he taps away at the device, expertly hacking his way into yet another system until a cluster of icons appear, and – 

There. The tracking program, a flashing red dot signifying an active target. 

_Luke… _

With one jab of a finger, he opens the program. A map of the Galaxy pops up before promptly shifting to a blue screen of static. 

_Hyperspace. They're in hyperspace._

Vader's heart pounds as he tries to think. There is no guarantee this _is_ even Luke. But if it is – and he _knows_ it is – they're safe for now. Their pursuer cannot locate them while they're in hyperspace any better than this remote program can. 

But neither can Vader, and he's running out of time. Hyperspace journeys can last anything from less than an hour to several days. 

His feet carry him out of the room and to the turbolifts before he even knows where he's going. Only seconds into the too-slow ride down to the hangar, it comes to him. 

_I would come with you. I would be right beside you. _

Obi-Wan. 

He would still be on Comra, right? He would have waited for him. He would have waited for… for Anakin. For Anakin Skywalker to return home. 

He would want to help him. He would want to help rescue his family. 

A pang blossoming in his chest, Vader shakes away the sentimentalities and looks at the practical side of things. Those doctors who removed his chip… would they still be on Comra too? He only remembers them in drug-suffused flashes, milling around the room, testing the restraints on his wrists, cleaning their tools… 

It seems like such a distant fever dream. Suddenly, Vader is not sure the doctors were ever there at all, or that the last few days ever really happened. A control chip in his head… it's absurd. It's ridiculous.

Almost as absurd and ridiculous as Obi-Wan forgiving him for what he's done. Obi-Wan still caring about the person he's become. 

But he has nowhere else to go. 

The alarms go off the moment the turbolift hits the hangar level. The doors open to a unit of stormtroopers, gathered around the lead trooper as he flicks away his wrist comm. 

”Lord Vader,” he acknowledges his superior officer. ”We're on code crimson lockdown. No one is allowed to leave the premises.”

Vader's gaze flicks right past them, from his waiting freighter to the floor-to-ceiling gates to open space that stand at the end of the hangar. With a low rumble, they begin to slide closed from both sides. His peripheral vision slides over the troopers. Killing them would take too long. 

”Incompetent fools,” he yells, breaking into a run as they hesitantly draw their blasters into readiness, ”you let him escape!” 

”Lord Vader, we really must insist –”

He senses the stun bolt coming from lightyears away and deflects it away with the flick of a wrist. The bolt topples the lot of them, a clatter of armor breaking out behind him as he sprints up the ramp of his ship and dives into the cockpit in what seems like a single leap. 

The closing gates just barely graze at either side of the ship as Anakin Skywalker once again embraces his name and soars to infinite skies. 

-

”Abort mission. I repeat: abort mission. The situation has changed. I need you to return to DSC-2 without delay.” 

”Yes, Master.”

-

Obi-Wan has rarely felt so utterly useless in his life as he did for the stretch of time between Anakin's departure from Comra and the ground-shatteringly good news he received from Phindar. During the interval, he would spend long hours doing nothing and berating himself for it. Missing being able to meditate, or knowing any semblance of peace at all. Nodding along to Rex's attempts at conversation. Managing to convince himself several times that he should have gone with Anakin, after all – because when had their separation ever brought about good results? The last time when Obi-Wan had been the one to go, his old Padawan had gotten himself kidnapped and forced into mind slavery, and to say that the former Jedi had no desire for this pattern to repeat itself was an understatement. 

He should have gone with him, he should have gone with him… Anakin had barely wiggled free of his own chains and he was in no shape to save anyone – 

Then he'd gotten the call from Phindar. He could hardly dare to believe what he was hearing. 

Padmé and the kids had escaped and had taken refuge with a trusted friend, one of Queen Amidala's old handmaidens. In fact, this was _such_ a trusted friend that Queen Breha herself had been willing to share Obi-Wan's whereabouts with her. Obi-Wan had been dumbstruck with relief, his anticipation for their reunion only dampened by the fact that Anakin wasn't with them. He'd not mentioned this to Sabé, though, only that he needed to stay put because he was expecting someone. 

And if Padmé and the twins had gotten away from Palpatine, thus depriving the Emperor of his main leverage against Anakin… then that had to mean… that had to mean that Anakin - 

A sudden feeling pulls him to the window above his bunk, then in a beeline back across the room to the door and finally out of the building altogether. He runs to the open clearing that spreads out before him. 

There, in the skies, gliding down from behind the thin veil of clouds… Obi-Wan quickly realizes that he doesn't have to squint to try and recognize the ship. 

The Force confirms what his heart is the first to know. 

Just like that night on Colstev… 

How utterly and completely his world has transformed since then. Back when he grieved a memory of his Padawan and dreaded the day Vader would find him… contrasted with now, when his heart overflows with joy at Anakin's return – 

However, he is not quite prepared for the creature that falls out of the spacecraft almost as soon as it reaches the ground. Anakin staggers down the ramp in a frantic state, his clothes disheveled and his hair a mess, with sweat running down his brow and clipped words wobbling out from his lips. 

”Anakin…”

”Please… please…” He's so unsteady on his feet that Obi-Wan wants to catch him in his arms, but is afraid to touch him, like his body is made of the most delicate flower petals. ”Please help,” he stutters between distressed gasps of air. 

”Always. Talk to me, Anakin. What happened?”

”Luke,” he pants. ”Padmé…”

”It's okay, Anakin,” Obi-Wan hastens to reassure him, ”they're safe. They got away, they're on their way here.” He reaches to clasp Anakin's forearm as he falters on his feet. Then understanding registers on his face, and his eyes widen. 

”Here?” he repeats, looking wildly around. His eyes grow red as he breaks into silent, gently falling tears. ”T-they're really coming here?”

”Yes,” Obi-Wan assures him. ”They escaped and they're on their way here.” 

”The doctors…” Anakin has to catch his sniffling breath before continuing. ”The doctors, the surgeons who… are they still here?” 

Obi-Wan gives a confused nod. ”Yes, I asked them to stay for a while, just… just in case you came back and there were any complications…” 

”And the operating table, a-and… all their tools? It's all still here?”

”Yes… are you okay? Are you hurt?”

He shakes his head hard enough to give himself a concussion. ”Not me. Luke. _Luke…_ Please, will you tell them to get everything ready? F-for an operation? We have to leave here as soon as it's done, you understand?”

”An operation?” Obi-Wan echoes. ”Wait… _Luke?_”

”A tracker chip,” Anakin splutters. ”Palpatine, he put a tracker chip…there's an agent… he sent an agent after…” Seething anger registers among the wild jumble of emotions flitting back and forth across Anakin's face, and then his knees buckle and Obi-Wan catches him with both arms, this time. The young man seems to black out for a moment before regaining a tenuous awareness. Obi-Wan's brain, however, is working overtime and swiftly arrives at a realization. 

”I understand,” he nods, continuing to hold onto Anakin with one arm while bringing the wrist of the other to his mouth. ”Rex, you there? Tell Dr. Volus and his team to prepare for another surgery.” 

After a scratch of static, Rex answers. ”Is Anakin back? What's going on?”

”Yes, he's back. It's not for him. Please hurry.” With that, he cuts off the connection and once again reaches with both arms to support Anakin. ”It's going to be okay. I promise.”

Anakin's head bobs in a series of quick, feverish nods. And the longer Obi-Wan's eyes linger on him, on every detail of his features – streaked with tear trails, contorted with so much fear and exhaustion, and yet so intimately familiar – the more overwhelmed he grows. Feeling his turmoil in the Force, it is as though he is crying those tears too, and sensing the faint traces of his growing relief, of the glorious hope beginning to rise inside him, his own relief threatens to burst through his chest… and despite the circumstances, he is so, _so_ happy that Anakin is here… that he's right there, inches apart from him… that he's touching him and leaning on him… 

”Anakin… I'm so glad –”

Growing feeble in his arms and fainting against his chest. 

-

A row of high-ranking Imperial officials line the throne room when Vader steps in. Vader recognizes several of them. Mas Amedda, Harus Ison, Armand Isard… there are at least twenty of them, all caught in varying states of confusion and disarray, though none of them as flushed in the face or as vocal in his expression as Wilhuff Tarkin. 

”Ah, Lord Vader. We've been expecting you,” his Master greets him from the throne. Clad in a floor-length white gown and cape, she holds her oval head proudly. Eyes collectively widening at the sight of the newcomer, the crowd disperses aside as he strides across the room, moving to stand beside the throne with a deep bow. 

”This is getting more and more absurd by the minute,” Tarkin fumes, finger leveled at Vader as he gestures at a pair of stormtroopers at either side of the door. ”Arrest this man, now.” 

The stormtroopers make no attempt to move. 

”Absurd? How so?” his Master intones from her throne. ”It makes perfect sense to me. And more importantly, to 7.5 million clone troopers who have just pledged their allegiance to me and now follow my orders. And of course…” Vader feels her long spindly fingers land on his shoulder blades. ”…to the chief enforcer of my new Empire, Lord Vader himself.” 

”Lord Vader is the prime suspect for Emperor Palpatine's assassination… Empress Se,” Tarkin barks. ”His escape was witnessed by several stormtroopers.”

”Ah. Well, coups are traditionally violent affairs. I think we all remember what transpired the last time there was a change in regime. But it just so happens that you are mistaken." Vader moves his gaze idly around the room, scanning for potential threats to the newly crowned Empress. She withdraws her hand from Vader's back to steeple her fingers in front of her. ”You see, this is where things get complicated. The man who slipped through our fingers today was a clone.” 

Stunned reactions ripple through the crowd, followed by an incredulous murmur. 

”A clone,” Tarkin repeats flatly. 

”Well, don't look so surprised,” Master Se sings. ”As I said… 7.5 million clone troopers. 7.5 million clone troopers running around the Galaxy, and no one bats an eye.”

”A clone of Darth Vader?” Armand Isard joins in.

”Operation Twin Skies,” Master Se explains. ”It was a secret project that we worked on for two years, commissioned by the late Emperor to a small team of our top scientists at Kamino. Shortly after the Empire's inception, we were able to achieve two major breakthroughs in our cloning research. First, accelerated fetus development that would allow the subject to grow straight into the prime of adulthood. And second… the secret to cloning midichlorians.” 

”Let me see if I've understood you correctly,” Tarkin says, brow furrowing. ”You would have us believe that the one who murdered Emperor Palpatine… was a clone of Darth Vader, who all this time has been hidden away, being secretly developed in your laboratories.” 

”I take full responsibility, of course,” Se says lightly. ”We were looking forward to conducting the first field tests, but what we ended up getting was the first major malfunction. And considering what's been happening with several clone units of late… clearly, this is something we need to work on in our future cloning endeavors.”

Tarkin whips his hand across the air. ”And this… is the original Vader.”

”You're none too quick, Governor Tarkin,” Se counters, ”and frankly, I don't appreciate the questioning. Might I remind you that you are in the presence of your Empress?”

She raises her long arm, cold palm reaching up to cup Vader's cheek. Vader adjusts his position as she pulls him just a few inches closer. 

”Not that it matters, I suppose, whether this is the original or not,” Mas Amedda points out, looking eager to leave the room. ”Or whether he…” He meets Vader's eyes, then trails off. 

Empress Se tilts her head curiously at the rest of the room. 

”Yes, well,” Tarkin utters with a shrug which turns into a shallow bow. ”Then I shall congratulate you on your ascension… my Empress.” 


	24. (Be)longing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a quick note about the previous chapter: 
> 
> I only realized after comments started pouring in (THANK YOU! <3) that the last scene could have easily been misunderstood by some readers. but just to make it completely unambiguous: the Anakin who reunited with Obi-Wan IS the real Anakin, and the Vader at the space station with Nala Se is the clone. Nala Se is lying. I think if you re-read the chapter it becomes obvious. 
> 
> she could have gotten away with the coup without lying, but her motivations mostly have to do with making her seizure of power as smooth as possible and establishing a degree of 'trust' with her new subordinates – better the devil you know, right? (Vader, that is) it's not really a good look for a cloning scientist to take over with the help of 7.5 million clones and a shiny new clone!Vader. (I mean, it's hardly a great basis for a successful reign as is, but I digress.) instead, she can just claim to 'take responsibility' for a failed clone without having to take any responsibility at all, being the Empress. and have a convenient excuse to increase funding for her cloning research + establish a FEARSOME reputation for her clones. (one of them killed the Emperor! also, sorry I keep abusing brackets. I have a problem) there is also an additional narrative reason, but that's for later.
> 
> incidentally, I AM currently planning a separate story with the premise 'character X gets replaced with a clone (and their loved ones take a hot minute to notice)'. it would probably be much shorter and have at least a touch of Crack Treated Seriously vibes (because let's be real, it's all very soap opera-esque… but then again, I always seem to slip into the depths of angst even when I don't mean to so who knows). aaaand currently, I am leaning towards Character X being… Obi-Wan, and the fic would take place directly after the Rako Hardeen arc. so if that's something you might be interested in reading, do let me know.

It was just another job. Easy. Routine. Everything about it was routine. The journey to a remote planet whose name Vader had already forgotten. Locating the Jedi. The short skirmish that followed. Every motion of his blade, every movement he employed against his adversary. 

Even looking into the eyes of his target, into the eyes of a man who'd once fought on the same side as him, a man he'd once respected. It made no difference to Vader that this particular target was slightly more familiar to him than most. A target was a target. A dead Jedi was a good Jedi. 

With an almost bored yank of his arm, Vader pulled his blade from Plo Koon's chest and let the former Jedi crumple against the ice-covered ground. Fresh snow fell in swirling flurries over the scene, a chilling gust blowing through Vader's combat gear as he turned away from the dying man. He had no desire to linger on this arctic hellhole of a planet, whatever its name was, and he had little interest in hearing the Jedi's last words, either. They always had to say something. Something profound or defiant, or pitying. It all sounded the same to his ears at this point, like the distant whine of wind or an insect's buzz. 

This time was no exception. A few meaningless syllables, a last gasp of breath, then an empty jolt in the Force.

By the time Vader felt the jolt, he was a long distance away from the scene, blinding white snow growing spotted with the black details of his battalion's uniforms. CT-7567 emerged from the cave that was currently sheltering their transport from the hellish weather. Wordlessly, the clone captain inquired whether they were ready to leave. Vader was about to respond with his usual nod, when – 

”Everything in order, sir?”

CT-7567's voice brought Vader back to the present, and to the realization that he had been swiveling his head about, scanning the snowy landscape for an unseen threat for a good minute. 

Vader gave a belated nod, and purposefully strode past his second-in-command. He didn't want him to see the befuddled expression that must be still adorning his face. ”Let's go.” 

Or the final glance that he shot into the distance before turning towards the cave, telling himself he was imagining things. 

-

It is the foreign feel of a plush bed underneath that rouses Anakin from slumber. After a long string of thin mattresses, uncomfortable cots, spontaneous naps between missions and the occasional hard floor of a prison cell, the pillows feel too soft, the covers too smooth and the fillings too rich, like they're devouring him. But the sensation is not entirely unfamiliar… in his half-asleep state, Anakin finds himself momentarily convinced that he's still on Comra, held captive by Obi-Wan, and that the reason for this is because Obi-Wan hates him and wants to keep him away from his family… his family, who are still… 

With a jolt, Anakin flies bolt upright. His hand comes up to his chest, clutching at the soft white fabric that falls over his form. He takes a look around. This isn't the sterile white room on Comra. Furnished in shades of pale yellow and lavender, a more innocent soul might characterize it as cozy. Sheer curtains fall softly over the length of a large window, letting in rich bursts of sunlight that wash over the space. But for Anakin, the change in his surroundings signifies one thing only. He has not imagined the last few days, and his family is in danger. 

This conclusion, however, is at odds with the warm, overflowing feeling of… _safety_ that envelops him. A sense of peace, tranquility, of… home. Things that have eluded him for so long… it takes him a moment to isolate the source. A familiar presence lies sleeping at his bedside, chair drawn against the wall behind him, limbs sprawled over the seat in a haphazard fashion. It is by sheer, unthinking intuition that Anakin arrives at his next conclusion. If Obi-Wan is here, and if he has time to sleep, then that means… then that means his family must be safe and sound. 

”Anakin,” a groggy voice greets him as the former Jedi stirs alive and shakes the sleep from his eyes. ”I sensed that you were awake.” He stretches his shoulders, arranging himself into a more upright position. ”How are you feeling?” 

Still too disoriented to answer, Anakin just stares at him – his friend, his enemy, a ghost from the past and the only constant of the present. How might he go about describing the feeling, anyway? When he knows he should be sick with worry but just Obi-Wan's mere presence here seems to have convinced him otherwise? 

Still, he's glad when Obi-Wan proceeds to suggest with a light chuckle, ”I'm sorry, I should dispense with the pleasantries. You must be anxious for news about your family.” 

Anakin nods vigorously. A smile blossoms on Obi-Wan's lips. ”It's all okay now,” the former Jedi tells him. ”We got the tracker out. Well, Dr. Volus and his team got it out, I should say. And the little convalescent is doing well.”

Relief sweeps over Anakin like a summery breeze, the knot in his chest unraveling. Something between a laugh and a sigh wafts from his lips. ”Can I see them?” His eyes glide across the ceiling as he probes into the Force, ”I can't sense them.”

”They're still at the medcenter,” Obi-Wan informs him. A certain wariness seeps into his voice. ”Recovering. It's still a little early, but I'll be sure to let them know you're awake and arrange a visit for today.”

Anakin nods, his relief giving way to… something resembling discomfort. Something nagging, and sticky, chipping at the sense of serenity around him. Unable to identify the feeling, he latches onto the relief, and the gratitude arrives with it. ”And… the doctors? Are they at the medcenter, too?” 

”Yes, I believe they're still here,” Obi-Wan replies. ”We're on Lianna, in case you were wondering. This guest house is safe, it's run by a… a friend.”

”I want to thank them,” Anakin declares. ”In person. They saved my son, and they –” _Saved me._ The last words die in his throat. It still doesn't feel real, what happened to him. It feels like it happened to someone else.

It did happen to someone else.

”Oh,” Obi-Wan says, a little flatly, ”I'm sure that can be arranged, as well.” 

It is at this point that it hits Anakin, the reason for his unease, the name of the nagging stickiness clinging to the back of his mind. The change of clothes, the shift in Obi-Wan's demeanor. Padmé and the kids not being here, Obi-Wan acting as an intermediary between Anakin and his family. And a question that's been pestering him for some time, ”How long has it been?”

”Three days.”

”Three days? I slept for three days?”

”We gave you a little something for it,” Obi-Wan confesses. Met with silence, he adds apologetically, ”You were frantic and exhausted when you came back. You needed rest.” 

A treacherous part of Anakin's mind offers a translation for this, _He still doesn't trust me. He's still trying to restrain me, control me. He's still keeping them away from me._

He is about to press his desire to see his family, when a quieter, more subconscious voice chimes in, _I can't blame him. I'm dangerous. I'm a murderer. I'm the reason Luke needed saving in the first place._

He shakes the intrusive thoughts away. ”I suppose I did need rest.” 

Obi-Wan's smile takes on a solemn quality. ”There's… much we have to discuss. But first things first. Let me run downstairs and get you some breakfast. And by the time you've eaten, I'll have the medcenter visit all sorted out, alright?”

Anakin nods. A rush of happy anticipation filters through the dark clouds that have gathered inside him. ”Alright.” 

-

A few hours pass. Anakin sits in his room, watching the curtains flutter in the gentle breeze that blows in from outside. There seems to be an unspoken agreement in place for him to stay put and not venture outside his room. While Obi-Wan has stopped short of outright forbidding him, it's clear enough by what he says and does. 

And so, it doesn't really come as a surprise when Obi-Wan doesn't beckon Anakin to follow him when he next comes back. Rather, he announces that Dr. Volus and his team are downstairs (and that Padmé and the kids will be here soon). And it makes sense. Assuming this is a public medcenter, they couldn't very well have the Galaxy's most feared man and the Emperor's killer wandering about, out in the open. 

”The thing is,” Obi-Wan says, scratching at his neck, ”they're only ever been in your presence while you were either restrained or asleep. They're aware of the… unique circumstances surrounding your case, however… two of them have expressed a request…” He cuts himself off and gives his head a shake, ”I'll tell them you send your thanks and invite the rest of them in.” 

”No,” Anakin says sharply, stopping Obi-Wan, who's already turned halfway towards the door. His eyes flick to the bed sitting against the back wall, then back to his friend. ”It's only for a moment, right? I… I really want to thank all of them, in person. And I… I understand.”

And he does understand. There is no erasing what he's done. No escaping what he's left behind. 

Obi-Wan sighs. ”Are you sure?” 

Anakin nods. ”Just do it.” With that, he walks over to the bed, lies back and positions his wrists by the headboard. While he does feel a pang of humiliation in his chest, it's a small price to pay for his son. For his family, whom he failed. Whom he betrayed and delivered to Sidious, because he was stupid enough to believe his lies, all those years… 

-

As soon as the door closes behind the Alderaanian surgeons, Obi-Wan rushes over to Anakin's bedside to free him of his bonds. Their visit ended up lasting no longer than five minutes, as his son's saviors stood over him at a safe distance and Anakin faltered over the few words he was able to muster to express his gratitude. Finally, they confirmed that Luke was indeed recovering very well, and on their way they went. 

Suddenly, a memory springs up in his mind, of him and Obi-Wan visiting a prison on Coruscant when he was still a Padawan. It was one of those nicer, better-funded prisons, where the inmates were able to lead fairly comfortable lives, with three meals a day and plenty of leisure activities available to them. He's long forgotten the reason for their visit, but there's one image that's stuck with him, ever since that distant day in another life entirely. He remembers prisoners being brought out from their cells, each sat down at a table with a metal ring for the cuffs on their wrists. He remembers them leaning forward with anticipation as family members were then let into the glass-walled room and guided to sit across from them. And he remembers one of them in particular, a young woman holding hands with a little girl. She took one look at the man opposite her – a look one might give to a stranger – then stood up and left with her child in tow. 

A burst of pure light in the Force pulls Anakin from his thoughts. Tears spring to his eyes. He can feel them. They're here, they're downstairs. Padmé, Leia… Luke. There is a sense of childlike liveliness that emanates from his Force presence. 

Anakin rubs his eyes, wiping his tears away with the back of his hand. _He's okay, they're okay… They're perfect. _

A twinge of pain grips at his heart. He's unworthy of them, really.

Because deep within, he's still that same creature that would lie prostrate before his Master, that would carve his own skin at his command. A creature of shame and blood, existing in his own, private hell, far away from everything pure and beautiful and innocent. Carving his chest - saber lancing through the chests of his victims - 

Blood and tears trickling down his body – his children sobbing as they were wrenched away from their mother's arms – younglings crying out as hot plasma pierced their still-beating hearts – 

”Anakin, are you okay?” Obi-Wan's voice pulls Anakin from the waking nightmares that have begun to play out before his eyes. His heart is pounding like a hammer, the insides of his throat tightening in on themselves. The walls are closing in. He can't breathe. 

”A-actually,” he barely manages to utter. ”I'm feeling a little… I don't know. I think I still need… rest.”

Obi-Wan leans over him, placing a hand on his hunched back. ”Don't you want to see them first?” he asks in a concerned voice. ”I've explained everything to Padmé. She knows.”

”Maybe later,” Anakin whispers, leaning back on his elbows. He pinches the bridge of his nose. ”I'm just… really exhausted.”

_Don't you want to see them?_

_I do, more than anything. _

Obi-Wan steps back and gives a small nod. ”Alright. Well, they were discharged from the medcenter today, so they're not going anywhere. Do let us know when you're feeling better.”

”Yeah,” Anakin promises. 

_I just don't know who it is they expect to see. _

-

Descending the creaky stairs - a quaint rarity in the midst of the futuristic cityscape of Anxarta - Obi-Wan throws a quick, appreciative nod to Yané, standing behind the reception desk. The guest house, according to her, is decorated to resemble a traditional Nabooian country mansion, with soft pastel colors, gently cascading fabrics and an abundance of fragrant flowers. But the true find is the hostess herself, along with this entire network of young women who once served Queen Amidala and are still willing to risk their lives for her. Even if her husband happens to be Darth Vader and the situation is too complicated to explain. 

Especially now that there are two.

Standing in the lobby, Rex and Kix both throw the former General a playful salute as he comes down. Peering from behind Luke's fluffy head, Padmé is the next to catch his eye. Propped up in Sabé's arms, Leia spares him a shy glance. He's seen them intermittently during the last few days, but every time still feels like a reunion. He's still not used to how simultaneously big and tiny Luke and Leia are, and at the mere sight of Padmé, he can't help but thank the goodness of the Force that she's still alive. Although, the bulk of his gratitude still belongs to Sabé, Kix, and another renegade clone named Wright who gave his life so Padmé and her children could escape Phindar. They held a memorial at the medcenter. Padmé spoke for half an hour, which she said was longer than it had taken for Wright, a complete stranger, to decide to help her. 

During their stay at the medcenter, Kix had also had his chip removed. He'd seemed relieved, and hardly surprised at the discovery, but had been loath to comment further. 

With long, flying leaps, Padmé rushes up to Obi-Wan, wrapping one arm around his neck in a quick hug. His beard brushes against Luke's cheek, who giggles. From the boy's sunny demeanor, one would never know what he and his family have gone through during the past weeks. ”How is he? Is he upstairs?” the questions pour out of Padmé's mouth as soon as she pulls away. 

Obi-Wan shakes his head. ”I'm sorry. He said he was still feeling exhausted, and wanted to rest for a little while longer.”

”Oh,” Padmé utters, a sting of disappointment passing over her features. ”I see. I understand. He's been through a lot.” She pinches her lips together, exchanging glances with Luke, who doesn't seem totally oblivious to the subject of their conversation. Neither does Leia, who has fixed Obi-Wan with an intent stare. ”And…?” Padmé's voice falters a little. ”Now that you've spoken with him…” 

”The man upstairs is Anakin, without any shadow of doubt,” Obi-Wan declares firmly. ”But you knew that.”

”Still…” Her face lightens a little as she runs a hand over her heart. ”It's good to hear you say it.” 

Obi-Wan turns to Sabé. ”Were you able to get the security tape from Phindar?” 

The young woman nods in reply, patting a pouch that hangs from her belt. ”And then some. You want to watch it now?” 

”Might as well get it over with.”

Adjusting Luke's position against her shoulder, Padmé shakes her head. ”I don't think… I don't think I can bring myself to watch that tape,” she confesses. ”I was just… really hoping to see Anakin.”

Obi-Wan gives her a compassionate look. ”Why don't you try knocking on his door in an hour or so? Second room to the right.” 

Padmé returns his smile and nods. ”I might just do that.”

”Well, shall we?” Sabé smoothes out Leia's dress as she sets her down on her chubby feet. She gestures towards a conference room standing on the other side of the lobby. ”Kix, Rex, I dare say your input may prove quite valuable as well,” she proposes. ”Unless…”

”No, it's okay,” Kix says, receiving an affirmative nod from Rex. 

As the four of them start towards the conference room, Obi-Wan steals one last glance at Padmé and the kids, the second family he ever knew, joined by Yané who crouches before twins to inquire, ”You wanna check out the pool?” 

”There's a pool?” gasps their mother. 

”Wassa pool?” asks Leia.

”Where's Daddy?” wonders Luke. 

-

By 'and then some' Sabé apparently meant that besides the security tape showing their initial encounter on Phindar, she has somehow managed to obtain additional footage of the new Vader in action. When questioned as to how, she just gives a coy shrug. ”I know people.”

Without exchanging another word, the four of them gather around the holotable in the center of the room to watch the combined footage. Blue shapes come alive and throw uncanny reflections over their faces. The most uncanny of them all, the Vader replica moves across the air in fluid, effortless motions, so eerily familiar… so eerily similar to the man whose face he wears, whose moniker he's inherited. But there's something about him, something different… something Obi-Wan can't seem to put his finger on, but that he knows is_ there. _

In the corner of his eye, he sees the minute flinch that runs through Kix, the comforting hand that lands on his shoulder when Wright's death plays out before their eyes. Even the stoic former Jedi himself has to lower his gaze for a beat, out of respect for the clone trooper's sacrifice. 

The second tape seems to be from a mission, or more accurately a Jedi sighting that turned out to be a false alarm. That doesn't stop the replica from killing all those present on the scene, as Imperial protocol doubtless dictates he do. Even through the grainy and garbled footage, Obi-Wan can tell this is the same person (if that's the right word at all) as in the previous tape. He can also still clearly tell the difference between the original and the replica. And it finally occurs to him how. 

”I'll be honest,” Sabé says as soon as the footage winks out and the lights come back on, ”they look exactly the same to me. And replicas aside, I'm still struggling to comprehend what happened to the original.”

Rex shakes his head. ”So are we all. However, with all due respect, Miss, I don't think the two of them look remotely similar at all, except on the most superficial level.” Kix bobs his head eagerly. 

Obi-Wan joins in, ”I agree, and I think I'm starting to see why that is. Between the blue filter and the poor quality of the footage, it's hard to make out the details of his face, but his movements… there's something about the way he moves. His gait, the way he handles his saber, the form he employs in battle… it all looks like Anakin, in fact, it looks _exactly_ like Anakin… but it lacks a certain something. It's too fluid, too flawless –”

”Too _flawless?_” Sabé echoes, concerned. ”Are you saying that this creature, this replica… is more skilled than Darth Vader?”

Obi-Wan purses his lips. ”Not necessarily, although…” He cuts himself off, ”What I mean is, the way he fights is more polished… almost inhumanly so. There's no hesitation, not a moment of indecision… seemingly no improvisation. He never seems to hang back, or stop to think about his next move, he just… moves. It is as though someone recorded hours… _years_ worth of footage of Anakin fighting various opponents, and then eliminated any errors, anything that might suggest wavering or faltering, and then just…” He gives a perplexed wave of the hand. ”…uploaded the results into this… being's brain.”

”Maybe that's exactly what they've done,” Rex agrees.

”But if that were the case, shouldn't his movements be… rather more robotic?” Kix questions.

”They probably _would_ be very robotic,” Obi-Wan says, ”if it weren't for the fact that this clone is clearly Force-sensitive.”

”What?” the others marvel in unison. 

Obi-Wan taps a finger against his temple as if to say, 'It's a Jedi thing.' Out loud, he says, ”That's how I know that this clone _is_ capable of improvisation. He just never _appears_ to improvise… because the way he moves is so perfectly error-free.”

To the gloomy silence that falls over the room, Obi-Wan then elaborates, ”I don't mean to suggest he's invincible by any means. The way he moves may be technically perfect, but he's still capable of judgment errors, as we've already seen. He clearly wasn't expecting Sabé to be as handy with a blaster as she is, or possibly for her to be carrying a blaster at all. He couldn't have predicted Wright's sprained ankle or how that would impact the overall picture. Indeed, it is the variables of the situation that wound up costing him his target.”

The others nod pensively, taking it all in. ”I wonder what the General would make of this,” Rex says with a fond half-smile. ”What Anakin… what Anakin would make of this.” 

Obi-Wan sighs. ”And here I thought we'd finally get a moment's respite.” 


	25. Sad, But Still Happy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've officially started writing that other clone AU so we'll be shifting from once-a-week updates to every-other-week updates at least for a while. unless I have no time to write at all on a given week or just really feel like working on the same story two weeks in a row (whether it's this one or the other one). both have been known to happen.
> 
> anyway thank you so much for reading and see you soon! <3

Vader knows he is not the original. This is not something he covets or feels envy for. He is the improved version, Vader 2.0. His predecessor was weak, subject to the same defects and imperfections that all humans suffer from, and this is why he ultimately failed. It was the mere possibility of this potential outcome that led to Vader's creation. His predecessor was indecisive, vacillating; he didn't know what he wanted. 

But Vader has always known his place in this world. Nothing can distract him from his purpose. He was born to serve his Master, and for him, this is all there is, or ever will be. Because he was programmed that way. In fact, he pities all the humans who aren't given the gift of purpose at birth, but often spend a lifetime searching for meaning in their empty, aimless, mediocre lives, only to eventually die unfulfilled. At a few months old, he is already more skilled, experienced and accomplished than most humans will be on their deathbeds. 

In truth, there is only one human alive who could ever hope to match Vader's ability. It is _his_ ability, after all, in its rawest, crudest form. But Anakin Skywalker will never live to die of old age. He is Vader's next mission, and therefore little more than a walking corpse. 

Just a little. 

”I want you to find him, capture him and bring him to Kamino,” his Master had instructed. ”There he will be dissected for parts, and those parts will be used to improve you.” 

”Improve… me?” Vader questioned. ”I'm afraid I don't understand, my Master. You told me I was better than him. That I can do everything he can and still make none of the same mistakes.”

”Yes, that is correct, Lord Vader,” Master Se answered. ”However, cloning is a complex science. We rarely measure things in terms of better and worse, but rather how something can be utilized to make something else even better. We are always looking to improve, to enhance and upgrade. Yes, you may be perfect as you are – but why should we settle for that when we can surpass perfection?” 

Vader looked up at her warily. ”This is a test, isn't it? To see which one of us is truly superior.”

”It is only a test if you have doubts about the outcome,” his Master responded. ”I don't.”

A rush of new confidence filled Vader. ”Thank you, my Master.” 

-

Anakin tosses and turns in his bed as flashes of Padmé and memories of his old life blend seamlessly with images of blood and torture and death. He grits his teeth and curls up into a ball in an useless attempt to hide, to escape, until a dull knock on his door mercifully brings him out of his half-asleep state.

”Anakin?” the distinct voice of his wife rings out through the door. ”I'm coming in.” 

She waits a beat before turning the handle, giving Anakin a moment to gather himself. He smooths out the covers that have grown crinkled from his restless rest and props himself up against the headboard. 

Padmé steps in, an absolute vision as always in a mint green sundress, lush brown curls cascading over her bare shoulders. There was a time when Anakin would have been unable to tear his eyes away from the sight. Now, he averts his gaze quickly, almost skittishly. He can't bear it. Her beauty, her kindliness. The warmth and affection that radiates from her aura. It's too much.

”I'm sorry if I woke you,” she says, sitting at his bedside in the chair that Obi-Wan had previously occupied. She laces her fingers across her lap, twisting them for a moment before looking up. ”But I… I needed to see you.” 

Anakin stares into the distance. ”I'm the one who needs to apologize,” he says thinly.

”We both know that's not true,” Padmé counters. Slowly, she slides her hand across the covers towards that of her husband, as though asking for permission to touch him. Her soft skin feels like fire and needles against his hand, but he doesn't pull it away. He may not be the most self-aware person, but even he knows that the sensation is his own guilt manifesting itself. 

”Obi-Wan… Obi-Wan told me…” Padmé starts to whisper, but that's as much as Anakin can take right now.

”How are they?” he blurts out. ”Luke and Leia?” 

In the corner of his eye, he sees a smile break across her lips. ”They're doing great,” she beams. ”Sabé and Yané are teaching them to swim, at the pool on the basement floor. You remember my royal handmaidens?”

Anakin nods. He stifles a rush of nostalgia that threatens to surface from within. He doesn't want to be thinking of simpler times.

”I felt comfortable leaving them with the girls, particularly Sabé, since neither of them seem to experience separation anxiety when she's around,” Padmé continues brightly. ”Well, Leia is just very independent by nature, I guess, but I'm pretty sure Luke thinks Sabé is his second mom.” She lets out a breath of laughter before hastening to explain,”Sabé is the one who…” 

”Looks a lot like you,” Anakin supplies. ”Your decoy, yeah. I remember.” That's what he says out loud, but inside, he's still thinking about pools. He turns to meet her eyes for the first time, holding her gaze in hopes he'll drown in those wells of amber, just keep plummeting beyond their soothing warmth into the depths of a cold, dark nothingness.

This time, Padmé is the one to drop her gaze, almost as though she can sense his secret wish. ”Anakin, I just want to say… we don't have to talk about anything. About us… about what you've gone through… any of it.” She strokes his hand between her fingers, thumb ghosting over the back of his hand. ”But I hope we will, eventually. I want to be here for you. And I want you to be part of this family again.”

Anakin's breath hitches. The walls are moving in again. The rose petals patterning the bedcovers transform into splatters of blood before his eyes. He jumps back. 

”I… I can't,” he stutters, yanking his hand from Padmé's gentle clasp.

”What do you mean?” Padmé asks, leaning in closer. ”Anakin, what happened to you… it wasn't your fault.”

”Please don't.”

”Please don't what?”

”Pity me.”

”I'm not pitying you,” Padmé claims, her voice gaining a heated note. ”I'm just… I'm sorry that this happened to you.”

”Then please don't feel sorry for me,” Anakin snaps back. 

”Then I'm… _angry_ that this happened to you!”

It is the raised pitch and indeed, the pure anger in her voice that draws Anakin's gaze back to his wife. She frowns at him. ”So you'll at least allow me that? To be angry on your behalf?” 

Anakin regards her silently. Angry on his behalf. Not at him, but on his behalf. A part of him is glad that she specified the subject and the nature of her anger. Otherwise he might have misunderstood. He was angry on his own behalf too, just for a brief moment in time. It was though he was in a sort of trance, riding a high of liberating fury when he killed Sidious. Now that feeling has waned with Sidious' death and he only has himself left to blame.

”Padmé, I'm not… I'm not who I could have been,” he says after a while. ”It doesn't matter if it was my fault or not.” _And it was._ ”I'm… I don't know how to be a part of a family. I don't know how to be a father.” 

”Well… would you like to practice?” 

”Please, don't bring them here,” he pleads. _Because I'm afraid they might turn to dust at my very touch._ ”Just let them enjoy the pool. And let me… enjoy the fact that they're alive.”

Padmé looks down. Her shoulders shift as a deep sigh escapes her. ”You know… Luke was asking for you. And Leia too, in her own, sulky way. You know they call you Dad? And Daddy?” 

This takes Anakin aback. He surveys his wife dubiously. ”They really call me Dad?”

She smiles and nods. 

”I've done nothing to deserve that title,” he mumbles. ”Nor you, for that matter. Any of you.” 

”Anakin, none of us ever deserve each other,” Padmé says patiently. Once again, she reaches out with her hand, curled fingers coming up to caress his cheek. She holds his gaze. ”Love is given. It's a gift. A grace.” 

A gift. A grace. Something undeserved… something no one can ever deserve. There is some solace to be found in that thought. Anakin can feel his facial muscles relaxing in the slightest suggestion of a smile. 

”I better go check on the twins,” Padmé announces. ”It's almost their naptime, and somehow they're still too young to figure that out for themselves, but not too young to get cranky and restless and just… impossible.” She runs her hand over his arm as she stands up. ”Come on down. Come on.”

”Now?” 

”Or we could check back next month,” she jokes. ”_Yes,_ now, you silly.” 

-

Padmé guides Anakin down two flights of stairs, through the beautiful interior of the guest house to the basement, the way there illuminated by a row of faux torch lights on either side of the corridor. A similar mood lighting adorns the basement itself. At the base of the stairs there is a small lounge area with a round, shallow table, a few chairs and a divan, before the room opens into a wide pool that stretches beyond the open gate, leading to an outside veranda. The water deepens steadily towards the other end of the pool. At the shallow end, two brown-haired young women stand in the water, each of them supporting a splashing toddler as they flap and flail their way across the pool. 

At the entrance of their parents, their dripping heads turn immediately. Luke's innocent features widen into an excited smile, and he starts gesturing at whom Anakin assumes is Sabé to be let out of the pool. Leia regards him with a little more wariness, although her eyes never stray from her father's form as he approaches. Anakin hardly spares a second glance to the two women, although he feels a distinct sense of caution and unease from their direction. 

”You two have fun?” Padmé inquires as the twins are helped to their feet and each into a pair or rubber slippers and toweled off. 

”It's warm, Daddy,” Luke says, looking up at his father, and Anakin feels his heart leap. 

Taken off guard and unable to put together a response, he is promptly rescued by Padmé, who dips her finger into the water and laughs, ”You're right, sweetie, it's so much warmer than the water at home. You know, Daddy prefers warm water, too.”

”Really?” Luke beams, as though he's just heard the best news of his life.

Anakin gives a lame nod. ”That's right."

”Sabé, Yané,” Padmé nods at her former handmaidens. ”Will you give us some… family time?”

Yané's gaze flicks uncertainly between Padmé and Anakin, and Sabé makes no secret of her aversion to the idea, looking half a syllable away from protesting. Nevertheless, they defer to their former Queen's wishes and bow respectfully before excusing themselves.

Anakin still remembers the way he felt when he met his children for the first time, back on Derra IV. He'd been in awe of them, thought them absolutely perfect, miraculous. And at the same time… he'd felt oddly detached. As though the love he had for them was always just eluding his reach, fluttering away from his grasp like a cluster of exquisite butterflies dispersing across the air. Something he couldn't just take by force. Something too delicate and beautiful for his blood-stained hands to appreciate. 

And he still feels much the same way. There is not a single fiber in his body that ever wants to see them hurt. And at the same time… that's all his hands have been trained to do. Hurt, torture, kill. Not embrace, hold, cherish. 

And yet, there isn't a single fiber in his body, mind, his very soul that doesn't want to hold them close and never let go. They sit at the poolside, watching the afternoon sunlight dance across the rippling surface, casting shimmering patterns across the walls. Swathed in a blanket, Luke leans against his father's shoulder, fighting against the pull of sleep as tries to satisfy his seemingly endless curiosity about the man.

”Daddy, is this where you live?” he mumbles sleepily into the fabric.

Anakin smiles and shakes his head, the movement of his chin just brushing against Luke's blond tufts of hair. ”No, afraid not.”

”Then where?”

”Where do I live?” He meets Padmé's eye, and she gives a playful shrug. "Uh…"

”I just thought,” Luke elaborates before he can answer, ”if you tell us, then… we could see you more often.” 

”…Yeah,” Anakin agrees. 

From under her own blanket and a thick layer of drowsiness, Leia mutters, ”You make Mommy sad.” 

Padmé's mouth twists into a good-natured grimace. Anakin lets out a rueful huff of laughter. ”I know. But the two of you make her happy. You… make _me_ happy.” 

Luke leans in closer against his chest. ”But you look sad."

Anakin hums quietly in agreement. ”I suppose I do.” 

”You could come home with us,” Leia proposes as her lids start to fall closed again. ”Home is always happy.” Her brow furrows in hesitation even as her eyes slip shut. ”Well… sometimes it's sad,” she admits, just barely awake. ”But still happy.” 

”That sounds perfect,” Anakin says, lowering his voice as the twins begin to drift off. 

_Perfect… absolutely perfect. _

_Too perfect..._

-

”I saw you with Padmé and the twins yesterday,” Obi-Wan tells Anakin the next morning as he brings breakfast to his room. For whatever reason, Anakin still doesn't feel right about leaving the room on his own. He's used to having a designated spot for him to occupy, a readily provided destination for him to go. And besides, his newfound freedom is an illusion, anyway. Even if he felt comfortable exploring the guest house, he still couldn't go outside without risking detection and subsequent capture and more importantly, without putting his friends and family in danger. They're apparently moving on to a new hideout soon, but the hard truth still stands. There are precious few places left in the Galaxy where the Empire's long arm doesn't reach. He knows, because he used to be that arm. 

”Yeah, I sensed you,” Anakin answers as he chews half-heartedly on a piece of bread. To the voices inside his head, he tells that Obi-Wan wouldn't have 'spied on them', and even if he did, it's not because he's still scheming to steal his family away, to pry them from his arms the moment Anakin starts trusting him, when he knows it will hurt Anakin the most.

The voices keep insisting otherwise.

”I still haven't thanked you,” he says somewhat loudly, trying to drown out the uninvited guests. ”For taking care of them.”

Obi-Wan sits at the foot of his bed, a pained expression falling over his features. ”You don't have to thank someone who owes you an apology,” he says. ”Anakin… I'm so sorry. I should have known from the beginning… I should have known that you would never join the dark side willingly. Padmé tried to tell me –”

The voices quiet down. The lights in the room grow dim. Everything stops.

Obi-Wan's lips keep on moving, but the sound of his voice grows muffled and distant, his words muddled and incomprehensible as an unbidden flashback overtakes Anakin's mind. Suddenly, he's back there – running down the endless flights of stairs of the Senate building, breath hitching in his throat as he struggles to wrap his head around the conversation he just had with the Chancellor, promising either certain death or certain salvation for Padmé, depending on Anakin's decision. His head is spinning, the collar of his Jedi tunics burning against his neck. Palpatine's words echo in his ears. 

_A Sith Lord. Palpatine is a Sith Lord – _

He has to tell Windu.

_– with the power to save my wife –_

He glances over his shoulder, seeing twice the number of stairs than he's supposed to. 

_He's a liar, and a traitor –_

He has to tell Windu, now.

_And he may be my last hope – _

He reaches the fourth floor, but doesn't really see it, the hallway and the windows and the renovation set-up all blurring together. He is aware of nothing else beyond the sound of his own step, each unforgiving pace bringing him farther and farther away from – 

_Padmé's last hope – _

His face twists into a pained grimace as he starts to turn on his heel. Then he hears something whizz across the air just below his ear, and then the world plummets into darkness. 

”Anakin?” 

With a jolt, Anakin is brought back to the present as the long-repressed memory releases him. An upturned tray rests on his lap, meiloorun juice spilled all over the covers and dripping over the bedside to the floor. Inches above him, Obi-Wan's kind eyes regard Anakin with concern. A gentle hand rests on his shoulder, shaking him back to reality. Anakin feels himself tremble under his touch.

He was going to say yes to Palpatine. Of his own free will.


	26. Goodbyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ha! just barely made my weekly update, after all! (still gonna be every other week from now on.)
> 
> you want to suffer some more, please consider reading my other clone au Don’t Be a Stranger! <3
> 
> *edit: CONTENT WARNING: suicidal ideation towards the end of this chapter, in Anakin's segment. it's pretty subtle/mild but also kind of explicit, so please be aware of that.

”No, I don’t trust him,” Sabé blurts out. ”Thank you for asking.” 

”Shh!” Padmé hushes her sharply, and for once it’s not because the twins are asleep. Or they are, but not in the lobby that the two women are presently occupying, but upstairs in their room with Obi-Wan. Apart from Sabé, the former Jedi Master is another person that the twins seem to trust implicitly. ”Did you know that Force-sensitives possess a keener sense of hearing?”

”I do now,” Sabé informs her, and does lower her voice a little. ”It still doesn’t change my opinion. What, should I be worried? Doesn’t that only prove my point?”

”No,” Padmé hisses at her. ”I mean, I don’t want him to get upset, which he will be if he hears you. Obi-Wan suspects the chip’s compulsions could still be affecting him, and the last thing he needs is for us to act distrustful of him. What he needs is –”

”But that’s exactly what I’m getting at,” Sabé cuts in. ”Was it not those ’compulsions’ that made him do the Emperor’s bidding and hunt down hundreds of Jedi and innocents? Padmé, you seem to be under the false impression that I don’t really believe you or haven't accepted the truth… but I do, and I have. And that’s precisely why I advise caution. I understand that he’s the love of your life and the father of your children, but you know what else he is? Darth Vader. Or he _was_ Darth Vader, the semantics don’t really matter. What he went through isn’t something that’s going to be magically cured overnight. Until a few days ago, murder and torture were his full-time job. He already strikes me as unstable, and –”

”And you’re just waiting for that ticking timebomb to go off and blow us all to smithereens?”

Sabé’s shoulders rise in a stiff shrug. ”That’s one way to put it, I suppose.”

Padmé scoffs. ”And what would you have me do, exactly? Lock him up in a facility and bring him out once a year in a straitjacket to watch holos of his children through a transparisteel wall?” 

”You’re putting words in my mouth,” Sabé protests. ”What I said was we need to exercise caution.”

Padmé lowers her gaze. Perhaps she’s being unfair to her friend. It is not as though she can’t see her point, or that her concern doesn’t come from a place of care. Back on Phindar, Sabé told her that she had actually looked for Padmé for some time after the Senator had been declared missing in the wake of the Empire’s establishment. She had correctly deduced that there was simply no way that a prominent politician who was a known friend of the Jedi and a vocal advocate of democracy had just vanished into thin air on the same night that everything she had ever put her faith in had fallen apart before her eyes. However, she did not yet have access to the same amount of resources and connections as she does now, so her search had come up empty. Eventually, she had been forced to accept that Padmé Amidala was either dead or did not want to be found, and she had arranged a small reunion between former handmaidens in their beloved Queen’s honor and remembrance. The handmaidens that had attended had actually become some of the first and most important contacts in her far-reaching network of friends, rebels and other misfits. 

”Did it come as a shock to you?” Padmé asks suddenly. ”When not only did I show up at your doorstep, but I showed up as a mother of twins and…” _Wife of Darth Vader._ No, that’s not what she wants to know, because of course _that_ part was a shock, Sabé has made that perfectly clear. Padmé doesn’t really know what she’s trying to ask, but she can’t help but feel like she has disappointed her oldest friend somehow. 

_Showed up as a disheveled, freshly escaped homeless fugitive who’d let herself get impregnated by a former Jedi, present Darth Vader and was now towing along the results, _perhaps? A far cry from the stoic, sagacious Queen she had been at mere fourteen years of age?

To Padmé's amazement, Sabé seems to catch on. ”Padmé,” a grin spreads across her face as she leans in closer across the sofa. ”First of all, I’d seen some recent holos of you before you went missing. I had my suspicions.” Padmé cannot stop a faint flush from climbing on her cheeks as she recalls the layered, unwieldy Senate gowns she would wear in an attempt to hide her pregnancy. _That obvious, huh?_ To be fair, she was carrying twins!

”Second of all, Luke and Leia are wonderful,” Sabé goes on. ”I’m guessing that if you had to go back and do it all over again… that because of their existence alone, you wouldn’t change a thing.” 

Padmé smiles. ”No, I would not.” She means this hyperbolically, of course. If she indeed had the ability to go back in time and change history, Anakin would never wind up in Palpatine’s clutches. And she would not be a fugitive, either, because she would have found a way to make one of the most violent murders in Galactic history look like an accident. 

”As for your love story, well,” Sabé adds with a tilt of the head, ”it’s certainly one to write memoirs about.” 

This earns a soft snort from Padmé. ”I’m not an elderly lady yet, you know. And my love story is not yet over.” She purses her lips, a shadow falling over the momentarily lightened mood. ”Which brings us back to your point.” 

”Look,” Sabé says, then pauses for a moment, seeming to choose her words carefully. ”I think your judgment is biased in his favor. But I can’t pretend to be impartial, either. I think what we can agree on is that the twins need to be protected from any and all potential dangers, no matter where they come from.”

Padmé drops her head in a reluctant nod – not necessarily reluctant to agree, but to own her many failings as a mother. She hasn’t done a perfect job of protecting them, not by a long shot. And she cannot lie to herself that Anakin has not played a part in that failure. And by this, she does not mean what he did under the chip’s influence, on Palpatine’s orders. But rather what the loss of Anakin did to _her_ – how it led to her shutting herself off from the world and neglecting her children when they needed her most. 

A gust of sudden doubt blows through her. Is she still failing as a mother? What if Sabé’s right, and Anakin still poses a threat, unwittingly or not? Can she truly keep her children safe and allow, even encourage him to make up for the time he has missed with them?

She knows that their little band of outlaws will be splitting up soon. Yané has invited them to stay for as long as they need, but she also needs to re-open her business and livelihood soon. Rex has expressed a desire to go back to Alderaan to check on his recently liberated brothers and start planning a more large-scale clone rebellion. Kix will probably go with him. Padmé fully intends to honor her promise to help the clones in any way she can, but she also has to take care of the twins, and right now it seems like Sabé might be better-equipped to provide them concrete assistance. 

As for Obi-Wan… there isn’t a doubt in her mind that Obi-Wan will stay with them. He has become a part of their family, after all. A funny uncle in all but blood. 

_Yes… Obi-Wan will know how to handle Anakin,_ she tells herself. _He saved Anakin once… he can do it again._

-

Rex, Obi-Wan and Padmé have all agreed that they can’t very well postpone breaking the news to Anakin anymore: that the Empire has cloned him, that said clone has taken up the mantle of Darth Vader and filled the vacancy as the Emperor’s head slave. (Oh, and that the vacancy of Emperor has also been filled.) If they just keep putting off the inevitable, it will seem like they are keeping things from him. It has only taken them this long because they wanted Anakin’s first few days as a free man to be peaceful and stress-free. They still worry how he might react to these shocking developments, if seeing ’himself’ still bound to servitude, doing a new master’s bidding, might trigger him somehow. Obi-Wan has informed them that he seems to suffer from a nasty case of trauma-induced flashbacks, and even something seemingly minor could potentially set off an attack. 

Technically, Anakin could have found out about the clone at any time by simply turning on the Holonet available in his room. But he hasn’t. In fact, it doesn’t seem like he does much anything on his own unless explicitly told to. He spends his days by sitting in his room, eating the food that’s brought before him, and being towed along by either Padmé or Obi-Wan to watch his children levitate stuff around the lobby and participate in awkward conversations. He seems to require almost as much sleep as the little ones, but then, it doesn’t seem like he’s getting much actual rest, either. Whenever their sleeping cycles don’t synchronize perfectly, he spends most of his waking hours fixing and fine-tuning Yané’s service droids. Knowing the General, those droids must be absurdly overqualified and fit to serve in at least ten other occupations by now. 

They have all agreed that being clones themselves and having undergone similar trauma, Rex and Kix are the best candidates to break the news to Anakin. Outside a few stiff nods and glances, the former brothers-in-arms haven’t really interacted since… well, since Rex first told him the truth about the chips on Comra. With a wry smile, Rex remembers how he poured his heart out and truly gave his best effort to empathize with a man he resented for two years. 

”Welcome to the club, fellow freak of nature. We have cookies and self-deprecating humor.”

A somewhat lazy effort at looking bemused passes over Anakin’s face as he glances up from the droid parts scattered out on the floor and up at Rex, proffering a tray of sweet-sand cookies. Beside him, Kix shoots a frown at his brother. 

”Sorry,” Rex laughs, shoving the tray forward again until Anakin picks up a cookie. ”Obi-Wan told me to ’break it to you gently’. I thought I’d open with a joke and then cut to the chase. Look, here’s the deal, sir. The Empire cloned you and now there’s a new Darth Vader on the loose. The right hand man of the new Emperor – or Empress – namely, the former cloning scientist Nala Se.”

While certainly a dark kaadu, Rex supposes it only makes sense that someone involved with the clone army's creation would assume the throne and command of the millions of enslaved soldiers that came with it. It stands to reason that they would know about the true function of the chips and how to best exploit them to their advantage. He only has faint recollections of the Kaminoan scientist from his time in the facility, but whenever he thinks back to what little he does recall, a chill crawls up his back. It doesn’t really matter how much or how little he remembers, anyway. This is someone who collaborated with Palpatine to create an army of cannon fodder. This is someone who would have been involved in the development of the control chips, either directly or indirectly. Ergo, this is someone whom Rex despises with every ounce of his being. 

”Technically, he only qualifies for honorary membership,” Kix points out as he finds his own sense of humor, bringing Rex out of his reverie, ”having a clone of himself, but not being one… himself.” 

”Quit being a gatekeeper and eat your cookie,” Rex chuckles and jabs the tray at his brother. 

Apart from setting aside his own cookie, Anakin’s reaction is somewhat subdued. In fact, his expression hardly changes. ”The Emperor… the Empire made a clone of me,” he repeats evenly. 

”Seems that way, yeah.” 

A blank silence stretches between them. Anakin flicks his gaze between Rex and Kix, almost like he’s asking what they expect him to do with that information. Wrap his head around it, probably, which is admittedly a tall order. 

”Can I… can I see…? Is there…?” he inquires uncertainly. 

Rex and Kix exchange glances before the former medic pulls out a holo and holds out the inactive disk before Anakin. ”Are you sure, sir? You know what this guy’s job is. This could be upsetting for you to watch.” 

Anakin just nods sharply, not really seeming to grasp Kix’s meaning. 

The holo in question is the brief clip of footage Sabé managed to acquire from Vader’s latest mission. It’s blurry and garbled, but the resemblance is evident. Anakin watches expressionlessly as the replica ignites his saber and proceeds to massacre a group of innocent bystanders in cold blood. 

If Anakin is feeling upset, he’s hiding it well. After the holo winks out, he turns to Rex and shrugs, ”Well, I don’t remember ever wielding a golden saber… so I guess that’s not me.” 

It occurs to Rex that with so many missions behind him, the trips, the planets and the victims must all blur together in Anakin’s head at this point, and without the visual giveaway, there _would_ be no way for him to know that wasn’t him slaughtering the civilians. Oddly enough, the same isn’t true for Rex: he recalls every single Jedi and innocent he helped to kill, but he doesn’t want to be thinking about that right now. 

A sharp sting of pain suddenly lances through his skull as distant flashbacks crawl up from the recesses of his memory. Perhaps he should have taken Obi-Wan’s warning about potentially triggering content more seriously. 

At least Anakin is taking the news surprisingly well – or apathetically. 

”I don’t really know what to say,” he confesses. ”Look, someone could have easily edited the holo. How can you be sure that’s not me?” 

Rex and Kix lock eyes again.   
  
”Wait,” Anakin cuts in, his gaze darting between them. ”There’s something you’re not telling me. You’ve… _met_ him?”

”I caught a glimpse, yes,” Kix confesses. ”He was the special agent that the late Emperor sent after your family. But I promise you, we all managed to escape completely unhurt. Except…” 

”Except…?” Anakin echoes. All remains of apathy gone, naked alarm has erupted across his features. 

Both of them know that Anakin’s concern is chiefly for his family’s well-being. Regardless, with a deep breath, Kix proceeds to recount the story of their escape from the Imperial space station and the crucial role Wright played in it, as well as his heroic death. 

By the time the story concludes, Anakin seems very preoccupied indeed, his thoughts appearing to flit between many different directions. But to his credit, he doesn’t brush aside their brother’s sacrifice. 

”I’ll never be able to thank him,” he mutters. ”It should have –” He clamps his lips together. After a pause, he looks up at the clones. ”Rex, about what you told me on Comra. About the chips, and the clones… I… I haven’t… we haven’t…” 

”You don’t have to say anything, sir,” Rex assures him. ”I know now that you truly do understand.”

A faint suggestion of a smile sweeps across Anakin’s lips. ”Stop saying ’sir’.”

”What?” Rex wonders, before retroactively hearing himself and shaking his head. ”I swear I can’t seem to drop that old habit.”   
  
”Although…” Anakin says wistfully. ”I do miss the old times. I mean… you know. The good parts, anyway.” 

It is his way of saying sorry. For everything. For always having known on some level the true nature of the clones’ noble service to the Republic, the dark implications of their enhanced obedience. For failing to listen to Fives. For failing to speak up before it was too late, before his own voice was stolen away. 

For treating them as the property they were for two years, for addressing them by the designated numbers that indicated their status as mass-produced commodities. Even though those things were not his fault, it still hurt. It still hurt, losing a friend. 

”Me too,” Rex admits. ”Sir,” he adds wryly. One last time. 

”I just wanted to say that before you leave,” Anakin tells him. 

”Kindly stop reading my thoughts,” Rex huffs in mock exasperation. ”Or sensing my intentions, or whatever. But… yes. I have no intention of resting until I’ve freed every last one of my brothers from the Empire’s bondage.”

”Well, you got off to a pretty good start back on Derra,” Anakin chuckles. ”I still can’t believe you were able to dupe me like that. But I’m glad you were.” He turns to the other clone. ”And Kix… just… thanks.” 

Kix leans in closer and gives Anakin a pat on the shoulder. ”Take care of yourself, General.”

The gesture is sweet, if a little restrained, so Rex decides to go ahead and take it one step further. Literally, as he takes a step forward and traps his former superior officer in a big old bear hug. To Rex’s half-surprise, Anakin hugs him back. The former Imperial enforcer is all hard muscle and no superfluous fat, so one might think he would feel strong and taut. 

Instead, he just feels small. 

-

Many Force-sensitives do indeed possess a keener sense of hearing. Anakin is one of them. But even if he weren’t, it doesn’t take a genius to see that none of the people around him really trust him. Padmé and Obi-Wan may not be able to admit it out loud like Sabé can, but even they are walking on eggshells around him, acting like he’s made of either flimsi or explosives. 

_A ticking timebomb,_ as Sabé put it. No, wait… that was Padmé. 

And that characterization is accurate. Anakin knows that now. He was always going to accept Palpatine’s offer. He was always going to fall to the dark side. The Sith Lord never had to resort to drastic measures. He can see it play out before his mind’s eye – an alternative timeline, one where he was never intercepted, his mind never surgically altered; one where he turned around, doubled back and crumpled at Palpatine’s feet of his own accord, out of his own selfish desperation. Anakin knows he has it in him, he always did. 

There was no puppet master holding his strings when he slaughtered that tribe of Tuskens, no outside force making him strangle all those criminals he interrogated during the war. And there was no chip embedded in his head when he killed Dooku, either. 

And the same holds true for when he killed Sidious. 

He’d used the dark side to do it. No… not ’used’. He’d soaked and drenched himself in the dark side, reveled in its power, subjugated it to his will and rained lashes on the sore, reddening tissue that was its back. 

No one forced him to enjoy it. But the truth is… there were times when he would. Because even while he was a slave, a pitiful extension of his Master's will and power… the dark side was what gave him an illusion of control. It made him strong. It made him Darth Vader. 

What is he now? A complication, a burden. Unstable. Volatile. Dangerous. 

The voices haunt him by day, nightmares plague him by night. Deafening him with the screams of his victims, showing him over and over again the gruesome details of their slow deaths. One of these days, he won’t be able to tell the difference anymore, between what’s real and what’s not, between what he’s left behind and what’s transpiring right in front of him, or between friend and foe. 

And even if he wasn’t a threat… he would still be a target. Sidious would have never sent that clone after his family if it weren’t for their connection to him. And that was when Anakin was still just a pitiful mind slave that his Master was seeking to bring even further under his control. Now, he’s a high-profile fugitive and the Emperor’s murderer. The bounty on his head must be astronomical. By continuing to remain in their proximity, he’s actively putting his family in danger. 

And never mind the bounty hunters. Somehow – and he can’t explain how, because it’s one of those things he just _knows,_ inexplicably and without a shadow of a doubt – he knows that the clone will be the one to find him. They will do battle, and only one will be victorious. 

This mysterious knowledge doesn’t extend to the where and when… or who might be caught in the crossfire. 

Anakin can feel his breath quickening, his heart thumping away like it's trying to escape his chest. Even now, with the power of free will restored to him, he doesn’t have a choice. He has to leave, tonight. And he knows perfectly well he has nowhere to leave _for,_ nowhere to return to. 

Nowhere but the Empire. 

Nowhere but his own willing surrender, his own voluntary end. 

_They’ll be better off without me._

Padmé… Luke… Leia… Obi-Wan. 

Rex, Kix… everyone he ever hurt. 

They’ll all be better off without him. 


	27. Save You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Padmé discusses her short but intense bout of depression in this chapter, and I just wanna do a quick disclaimer before you get to that part: by no means do I mean to imply that depression is something that’s under you control in any way or that you can choose to instantly get better and be cured of it forever by just flipping a switch and deciding to live. that’s not how it works. 
> 
> her point is more along the lines of ’you can choose to WANT to get better, little by little’ but she puts it a bit more strongly in this chapter due to a number of factors, such as guilt, the juxtaposition she’s trying to draw, the point she’s trying to make and the context in general. basically, the sentiment is something that reflects her point of view/personal experience in this fic.

Anakin waits until the dead of night before slipping out of his room. His plan largely relies on stealth and quick feet, but he still has taken some preemptive measures against being discovered before he reaches hyperspace. The most likely scenario is that Obi-Wan senses something amiss and manages to intercept him in the nick of time. Well, it’s a good thing he and Padmé are so heavily invested in trusting Anakin these days, because he just so happened to find a first aid cabinet the other day, which he might have thoroughly rummaged through when no one was looking. He might have also taken a little something from the top shelf and slipped it into Obi-Wan’s evening tea. The secret ingredient made him sleepy, but stopped short of knocking him out like a light. Just drowsy enough that his mind accepted Anakin’s discreet sleeping suggestion as he stole past the former Jedi’s door. 

Padmé tends to eat and drink very lightly towards the evening, but she is also a heavy sleeper. And if anything is going to rouse her, it’s going to be the twins, which will divert her attention to their needs first. Luke and Leia, of course, are also Force-sensitives. Padmé has described to Anakin with tears in her eyes how strong of a connection the twins already share with their father, and how they have been able to sense his presence or even his emotions on many occasions. And Anakin feels that connection, too (and he almost turns on his heel as his own eyes start to dampen, _almost_). It still doesn’t deter him from brushing against their yet vulnerable and untrained minds as he passes their bedroom, planting a gentle promise of sweet dreams and a better tomorrow. 

And as for Sabé… she would probably just wish him godspeed.

He hasn’t left a note or a message. He wishes he could tell Padmé and the kids that he loves them. He wishes he could let Obi-Wan know the depth of his gratitude, for… for everything, and wishes he could tell Obi-Wan that he loves him too, and that he knows that Obi-Wan cares for him as well. And he wishes he had words to make them understand. But he doesn’t, so he leaves none behind. 

His personal Imperial freighter awaits on the other side of the large, walled courtyard that opens outside, under a shelter that serves to further obscure it from curious eyes. Nocturnal noises from the city mingle in a restless symphony, remote strings of lights illuminating a deep blue night. Anakin squares his shoulders, striding with determination towards his ship, the beginning of the end. And hopefully, for his family, the start of something better. 

_They’ll be better off without me._

_They’ll be better off without – _

”Anakin.”

Anakin’s breath catches. He wheels around and feels his heart simultaneously swelling and breaking into a thousand tiny pieces. Padmé is standing there, clad in a cream-colored nightgown, arms folded across her chest, a woollen shawl shielding her petite body against the chill of the night. A messy braid rests against her shoulder, a cascade of stray curls framing her beautiful face, which contorts in a slight frown. 

”What are you doing?” she asks.

”Padmé…” Anakin breathes, gaping at her. A rush of something simultaneously stronger and gentler than frustration courses through him. ”You weren’t supposed to… you wouldn’t understand.”

”No,” she agrees, voice even. She takes a few paces forward, eyes trailing her step, before raising to look at her husband. ”I probably will not understand. But can’t you at least try and explain so I’ll know for sure?”

It’s not an unreasonable request. Of course, she deserves an explanation. And in the wake of that conclusion, another thought hits Anakin: what if she _will_ understand? He remembers the Padmé that he first reunited with on Derra IV, the estranged wife that regarded him with so much anger and resentment in her gaze. The Padmé that confronted him back on that ship – en route to a string of events that would find Anakin utterly helpless and his family in imprisonment and eventual mortal peril that they had just barely escaped – and begged him to protect their children from the Emperor. The Padmé who was able to raise and provide for two kids by herself, even while in hiding from the Empire and living in a constant state of fear – fear of the day _he_ would arrive and rip them from their home. And he is sure _that_ Padmé would understand. 

”I have a target on my back,” is the first thing that comes out of his mouth. ”I… I can’t stay. If I stay, you’ll all be in danger, all of you. You know Palpatine never would have targeted you if it weren't for me. That's why he sent that clone after you, that's… that's why he sent _me_ after you. I can’t live like this, Padmé, always looking over my shoulder, waiting for it to happen all over again. And it’s not just the clone,” a desperate edge bleeds into his voice, ”can you imagine the price on my head right now? Can you? We’ll be in danger wherever we go, from _everyone._” 

Padmé’s head drops in a slow, analytical nod. ”So, you intend to turn yourself in. To… to protect us?”

He knew she would understand. ”Yes! It’s me they want. Might as well give it to them.” 

It takes a single word from Padmé to deflate his hopes, ”Anakin…” 

”Please,” Anakin begs, falling back a short distance to negate the steps that Padmé once again takes in his direction. He holds up his hands in an invisible barrier. ”Listen. It’s not just that. It’s… _me._ Sabé is right. I’m… dangerous. I’m not… I’m not fully in control of myself. And I don’t need anymore coddling, I don’t need you to tell me chip this and that.” He huffs out a humorless laugh. ”Doesn’t it kind of make sense, where I ended up? You of all people should know what I’m capable of, Padmé.” Distant, inhuman screams ring in his ears as vague images of fire, tears and the glare of binary suns blur together, rising from the recesses of his memory. His voice doesn’t sound like his own when he whispers, ”Let me tell you a secret. I was going to turn to the dark side anyway. I was on my way to accept Palpatine’s offer when he intercepted me. Chip or no chip, I was always headed down this path. I was always destined to fall.”

”His offer?” Padmé asks. ”What did he offer you?” 

Anakin lets out a frustrated sound. He distinctly remembers explaining this to her back on Derra. ”A way to save you. And he kept that promise. When I woke up, you were alive and had already given birth to two healthy babies.” He holds back the pressure that threatens to push through the back of his eyes as he recalls the memory, the utter and complete happiness that had enveloped his whole world then. ”Maybe…” he starts to speculate. ”Maybe, removing me from the picture, even forcing me into his service… maybe that’s something he needed to do so you would live. I know that in some way, he always had my best interests at heart.” 

Padmé shakes her head, her veneer of calmness starting to break down. ”Anakin… we will never know what would have happened. We will never know what you would have done, because Palpatine took that choice away from you. I assure you, he never had your best interests at heart at all. This is the man who kidnapped you and enslaved you and made you do his dirty work against your will. Made you believe things that weren’t true. But you know, if you tell me that there was a part of you that wanted to say yes to him willingly, I believe you. Because long before he ever put that chip in your head, he was already manipulating you and lying to you and gradually… _grooming_ you for this. Conditioning you into being loyal to him. All under the guise of friendship. I know, because I watched it happen. I watched it happen without realizing what I was seeing.” Anakin draws a breath to interrupt, to protest, but Padmé almost shouts over him, ”I know it’s hard to look at it objectively. But he manipulated me, too, you know. He manipulated me into putting him in power, he manipulated me into allowing his horrible war to continue on and on, into staying docile and not fighting harder for what I believed in. It was always about him, Anakin, about what he wanted. And what he wanted was power. Power over the Senate, power over the Galaxy. Power over you.” 

Anakin studies his boots, hearing his own words ring in his ears. _He always had my best interests at heart._ Wait… why did he say that? Or even worse, _think_ that? He knows better. He killed Palpatine because he knew better. 

And in that light, what Padmé is saying makes perfect sense, too. And yet, he’s shaken by the thought of Palpatine having faked his friendship, of only using it as a tool of manipulation all those years. He hasn’t really thought about it that way. Suddenly, he feels like the ground is crumbling underneath the very feet he can’t seem to look up from. But eventually he does, afraid that if he keeps looking long enough, he will actually see it happen. 

”I’ve seen them with Obi-Wan,” he rushes to change the subject, struggling to keep his voice steady as another confused muddle of feelings assaults his mind, mixing with the whispers and intrusive thoughts that have taken permanent residence there. ”He’ll make a better father than I ever could. After everything I've done… there has to be a reckoning. I – this life – I can’t – I don’t deserve –”

"There already was a reckoning," Padmé cuts in, her voice a pure, cleansing fire that clears a path through the weeds that grow rampant in Anakin’s mind, demanding his attention. "That was when you killed Palpatine." She bites her lip and presses on, ”And you still want to talk about deserving? Deserving the title of father? Deserving this life, deserving the twins?” A hard look settles on her face. ”Fine. Because Obi-Wan doesn’t deserve any of that, either. He did the same thing that you’re about to do now, he abandoned them out of some noble sense of duty, some twisted notion that he was protecting them from the Empire by removing himself from the picture. He gave me that exact same line, ’because I’m a target’, and he just left. You know what would have been more helpful? Helping me raise them. Helping me protect them by staying with us. And not because he would have been a model father or even a model uncle,” the hardness on her face suddenly melts into a stream of liquid diamonds that begin to trickle down her cheeks,_ ”but because I was alone and desperate and scared to look after them on my own!”_

Anakin regards her silently, his heart aching from watching her cry. He remembers how Sidious would encourage him to think of his family as possessions, almost, something that rightfully belonged to him, something lost that he needed to take back for himself. Take back from Obi-Wan, who’d stolen them. Following their reunion on Colstev, he’d even confronted Obi-Wan about the very same thing that Padmé is accusing him of now. Deserting the family he’d gone to the trouble of stealing. But listening to his wife now, he begins to understand the difference between how he’d felt then and how Padmé must have felt when Obi-Wan left. This was never about him, or Obi-Wan for that matter. It was always about Luke and Leia, and what they needed. And it was about their mother, feeling all alone and abandoned in a world that had transformed overnight and left her behind. 

Padmé wipes her tears on the corner of her shawl, taking another few steps towards Anakin. This time, Anakin doesn’t back away from her. 

”You would have still found your back to us,” she says, dreamily. ”And we might have figured out earlier that you weren’t yourself. And Luke and Leia would have still known their father.”

She reaches up with her hand and brushes a loose curl from Anakin’s face. ”And you want to know the worst part?" she offers. Her hand drops back to her side, her gaze to the ground. ”I deserve them least of all. Two years ago, when I… when I first realized I’d lost you… I… I fell into a deep depression. I just… I shut down. It was as if I’d stopped existing, or the world had stopped existing for me. I wouldn’t move, I wouldn’t speak… I wouldn’t respond to my children’s cries. 

”I had no excuse. There wasn’t a chip in my head compelling me to neglect them. No Sith Lord whispering poison into my ear.” She looks him hard in the eye. ”And don’t you dare even think about blaming yourself, Anakin Skywalker. Because we’ve been through this. What happened to you wasn’t your fault, because you didn’t have a choice. But I did. I had free will. I could have chosen to keep going. I could have chosen to live… live for _them._ And eventually, I did. I made that choice. But if it hadn’t been for Obi-Wan, Motée and Captain Typho helping me, it would have been too late.” 

Of course Anakin wants to blame himself. There is no thought process behind that desire beyond ’I hurt her. I am to blame.’ But then, he thinks, it’s pretty amazing how she knew that this would be his first impulse. Even after all this time, she still knows him so well. Maybe Anakin’s the one who doesn’t know his wife as well as he thought. He had no idea that someone as strong and perfect as her could become depressed or struggle to embrace motherhood. 

”Really, the only deserving ones here… are Luke and Leia,” Padmé says softly. ”They may not deserve our shortcomings or the horrible things that happened to us that were beyond our control, but they deserve _us_. They deserve their two living parents and their enigmatic Jedi uncle,” her voice shakes with bubbling laughter, ”and their growing collection of clone uncles and the single clone of their mom who means well but has a big mouth.”

She runs her hand down his cheek to finally bring it to his chest and press it over his heart. ”They deserve your love, Ani. No one else can give them that. And you deserve their love.” She stands on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek. Their eyes remain locked as she gracefully drops back to his shoulder level. ”And mine.”

Anakin hesitates, lets his gaze wander. If he were to spin on his heel and take off into hyperspace now, this would be the most beautiful goodbye he could have received. 

Drying streaks of tears glisten on Padmé's cheeks, falling to meet the smile that persists on her lips. ”You asked me to save you, remember?” She reaches to take both his hands and hold them up across the space that separates them. ”I’m saving you now. I’m saving you from what you’re about to do. And you’ll be saving us, too. You will never have to worry about us being in danger, because we’ll never be apart again, and you’ll be protecting us and watching over us every day. And that way… we will all save each other.” 

Maybe that’s because it is not a goodbye at all. 

”Do you want that, Anakin?”

In one whisk of a movement, Anakin drops her hands to clear the way to throw his arms around her. ”I want that more than anything.” He holds her close, desperately, as though letting go of her for one moment could somehow reverse his decision and send him zooming into cold space. 

”I love you, Anakin,” Padmé whispers. 

”I love you, and I love our family.” 

-

She means it. From the bottom of her heart and the depths of her soul, with the width of her understanding and beyond, she means it. She means it as truly and deeply as she did that day on Geonosis, so long ago, perhaps even more so. The more isn’t the result of pity or sympathy or even guilt, nor doesn’t it stem from fear of losing him again, a fear that almost became reality tonight. The more has been building up a little bit each day since he came back into her life. 

”How did you… how did you know I was going to…” Anakin fumbles over his words as they descend into the basement floor. At night, the basement is illuminated by a ceiling of hundreds of tiny twinkling lights designed to resemble a starry sky, throwing a matching reflection on the tranquil surface of the pool. The far end that reaches outside has been separated from the rest of the pool by a translucent wall that descends from the ceiling. A door of similar design leads to the veranda surrounding the isolated segment, presently shielded from the coldness of the night by a high, rounded transparisteel cupola. 

”You toss and turn in your sleep,” Padmé tells him. ”It makes the bed creak. You can’t hear it in our room, but you can hear it in the fresher through the air duct. Sometimes, I can hear you talking, too.” _Or screaming. Or sobbing._ ”I went to get a glass of water a few hours ago, and I knew you were awake because I could hear nothing. I thought about knocking on your door, but I was very tired myself and I thought maybe you were just lying still and just about to drift off. But after that, I just couldn’t seem to fall back asleep myself. And then I heard the floorboards creak.”

”Ah.”

She lets a little smile tug up her lips. Bless the hostess of this house and her meticulously accurate recreation of an olden Nabooian mansion. The basement, admittedly, is shamelessly modern. Rain has begun to fall, lashing against the outer surface of the dome that forms a protective sphere above their heads. Come morning, Yané might have a few choice words for them about proper pool hygiene, but Padmé crouches down and descends into the warm water anyway, guiding an equally clothed Anakin down an underwater flight of stairs. She shoots him a glance as she remembers the mechanical arm, but Anakin seems to guess her thoughts and shows off his waterproof gauntlet by dipping it in and bringing it back out. 

Padmé, on the other hand, runs into a slight wardrobe malfunction. As the folds of her nightgown meet the surface of the water, they spread and swell out into the shape of a puffy cloud, or a serving of whipped cream. The husband and wife giggle. 

They _giggle._ No, she did not just imagine that. Anakin is laughing. A low, bashful sound that trails away too quickly, but real nevertheless. 

She has never wanted him more. Reaching up against the pull of her wet clothes, she cups his face between her hands and pulls him into a deep kiss. He tastes like fresh raindrops and… hesitancy… 

”Wait, wait,” she hears water splash sharply as Anakin pulls away from her. ”What about the kids?”

”They’ll be fine," Padmé assures him. "I woke Sabé up and asked her to sleep in our room." 

”Oh, okay,” Anakin accepts, and then seems to shrink back a little. ”Did you tell her –”

”I said I needed some alone time with my husband.”

Their lips meet and melt into another kiss, which steadily grows deeper as Padmé rests both her hands against the back of Anakin’s neck and pulls him closer. Then they start to wander lower, to his collarbones and further down to his chest. She retracts one hand to bare both her shoulders and let the top of the nightgown drop just a few inches. In the heat of the moment, she leans in close to her husband's ear to urge him to follow suit, ”Take your clothes off.”

Their little bubble of intimacy pops away in a single second. With another loud splash, Anakin jerks back, Padmé just catching the startled look on his features before they re-arrange themselves into a new expression of… she cannot quite place it. It’s not resignation, it’s… He glances down on his chest before gripping the front of his wet tunic with both hands with a bizarre, dead look in his eyes. He tugs the sleeves down mechanically like he’s entered a trance inhabited solely by him and the clothes he is now obliged to shed.

”Wait, wait,” Padmé reaches up to bring the movement to a gentle stop. ”Anakin…” 

There’s a glint of life in his eyes as he seems to snap out of whatever just overtook him and once again become aware of her presence. And at that very moment, Padmé, too, becomes aware of something. The pattern of scars that peek out from underneath his tunics, burning angry red across the muscular planes of his chest. 

Padmé has seen those scars before, she realizes. It was after she had been freshly delivered to the Empire and separated from her children – and her husband. Palpatine was punishing him and making her watch through a remote screen. He had made Anakin remove his clothes, walk naked through the detention level and order his own imprisonment – 

The full effect of what she just asked – no, _ordered_ – her husband to do hits her all at once. And succeeding this realization by less than a second comes the discovery that the seemingly random pattern of scars actually form a word. Two words. His response to the command. 

”Anakin,” Padmé repeats, hearing her voice shiver with regret. Anakin is looking back at her like a confused child, desperate to obey but no longer sure what their parent – or master – wants them to do. ”I’m sorry,” she whispers. ”We… we probably shouldn’t rush things.” 

And by things, she doesn’t just mean intimacy. She means the conversation. One of many conversations, hopefully. 

Pursing her lips, she pulls his tunic back on to cover his chest, leaning in to kiss a spot just above his collarbone. In the end, she can’t even bring herself to do that, stopping short of pressing her lips against his skin. She’s about to pull away when Anakin clasps his hand around hers and holds it up in the air. He brings his other arm to her waist and begins to slowly sway his body. Closing her eyes, Padmé lets him lead her to the soft, distant music of rain beating against the transparisteel surface of their little bubble. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here’s a great idea for a RPG: the total score of affection points you have for each person determines who’s going to wake up and stop you from sneaking off. 
> 
> Sabé, in fact, does not wish you godspeed. she kinda just materializes out of nowhere with her hair up in curlers and tells you to go back to bed, you fucking idiot. 
> 
> Leia uses Glare on you and it’s super effective. 
> 
> Luke uses Puppy Eyes on you and it’s also super effective. he also falls asleep in your arms when you inevitably pick him up.
> 
> please tell me in the comments what you think Obi-Wan would do/say, and/or which scene you would want to get in this imaginary RPG! <3


	28. A Strength and a Weakness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there’s still like a… a moderate amount of stuff… that needs to happen in this story either for plot-related or self-indulgent reasons. not like, 7 new plots out of nowhere but there’s still definitely still some ground to cover. I think I said 10 (or more) chapters at chapter 22 and this is the 6th chapter that’s come out since then… ehhhh I might be done by chapter 35 if I manage to overcome my worst tendencies (short yet rambly chapters that cover a period of 15 minutes) but I also don’t want to rush things because I know where I want to go with this and I know that certain things need to happen in order for us to get there. 
> 
> in any case, I hope everyone is still enjoying the ride and thank you so much for all your love & comments! <3

Padmé doesn’t have the heart to tell Obi-Wan. Or maybe she just doesn’t think it’s her place. Anakin will tell him once he’s ready. Maybe once he's certain he will never try to leave again. Once he knows that he’s safe and deserves to stay that way. For now, her own certainty is enough. Her husband might lack the tools to fully comprehend it yet, but at least he knows now. Knows he’s loved. Knows he’s wanted. 

She does end up telling Sabé. The former handmaiden is far from dense, and when your oldest friend wakes you up in the middle of the night, that’s usually a sign of emergency, no matter how you explain it away. 

However, she doesn’t tell her until the day they’re supposed to part ways, as Sabé departs from Lianna to join the clones on Alderaan and invite them to join the fight of their lives. Padmé had initially worried whether it would be safe for the covert rebel to return to Phindar, seeing as the new Vader has most likely gotten his hands on the same security tape that they had. This could potentially serve as a clue to their current whereabouts, or at the very least get Sabé arrested. Sabé had calmly informed her that covering her tracks was second nature to her, now. Before they had left the planet, she had shut down the main office, sent her entire staff either on the field or on vacation, and officially speaking, her organization had been under investigation by the local police for a while now. And that Sergeant Yarmo really liked Sabé because she had rescued his grandchild from a fallen building in the wake of the first Separatist attack during the Clone Wars. 

The others have already said their goodbyes, but Padmé accompanies her friend all the way to the cockpit of her ship and closes the hatch for a few minutes of privacy. And then she relieves her heart of the burden that has been lessening every day since she almost lost her husband again, but weighing it down nevertheless. 

Sabé’s reaction isn’t quite what Padmé expected. She appears to do some quick math in her head before exhaling slowly and surmising, ”He heard our conversation back then… didn’t he? He heard what I said. About not trusting him -”

Padmé shakes her head. ”This wasn’t your fault. You said it yourself, what he went through isn’t something that can be cured overnight. And I think the news about his clone might have acted as the main trigger, after all.”

Sabé chews on her lip. Padmé can almost hear the gears turning in her head, already rethinking her travel plans. ”Is he okay? Will _you_ be okay?” 

A confident smile settles on Padmé’s lips. The truth is, Anakin _has_ been doing a little better over the last few weeks. While she can still hear the bed creak more often than not when she passes his door or goes to the fresher at night, he has taken to sleeping late in the mornings, when the nightmares seem to be a less frequent visitor. Already the dark circles around his eyes have grown fainter and the tension around his shoulders started to ease. Sometimes, Padmé will catch him smiling quietly to himself, though he still hesitates to join in shared moments of joy. Instead, he prefers to take things at his own pace and remain a quiet observer to the laughter and merriment that surrounds him, still learning the ropes of how to relax and have a good time with his friends and family. Just as often, she catches lingering glances from Obi-Wan’s direction, looking at Anakin as though he’s a precious and irreplaceable treasure that no worldly gold can buy. She wonders if this is the way she looks at him, too. It’s certainly the way she feels about him. 

Luke worships the ground his father walks on, and Leia has been gradually warming up to him, too. She likes to get his attention by tugging on his pant leg and flashing him a mischievous smile. Once, Padmé caught him making a funny face when he looked back at her. 

Sometimes, his eyes will glaze over and he will drift away to a far-off place that no amount of pant-tugging can reach. At other times, he will recoil from unseen enemies or scream at empty air or bolt upstairs without a word of explanation. But he always comes back, eventually. The first thing he does is apologize to Luke and Leia. The twins were quite startled by their father’s behavior, at first, but have now seemingly accepted it as something that just happens. Sometimes, in lieu of a bedtime story, Padmé will recount the tale of a very brave and kind-hearted man who was taken prisoner by a very scary and bad man. How the bad man did bad things to him, such terrible things that he still has nightmares about them, sometimes even while he’s awake. 

Luke once asked what happened to the bad man. Padmé answered with a reassuring smile that the bad man was gone and couldn’t hurt their father anymore. Leia had then questioned, ”But what about the nightmares?”

”We will, I promise,” Padmé tells Sabé. ”We have each other.” 

Sabé seems to accept this, though she still retains a pensive expression. ”I wish… I wish there was something I could do for him.” The corners of her lips tug up in a lopsided smile. ”But I’m not his lovely wife nor one of his adorable children, and somehow I doubt I’ll be competing for the title of best friend anytime soon, either. So I guess he doesn’t really need anything from me.” 

Padmé draws a breath to sing her friend’s praises, assure her that she’s already done so much, when something stops her. The faintest outline of an… not even an idea. A distant hope, perhaps. 

She has already tasked her sneaky and well-connected friend with contacting her family as well as a precious few of her most trusted friends (most notably Motée) and letting them know that Padmé Amidala is alive and well and will see them as soon as it’s safe. This, in itself, poses a risk to that ever-precarious safety, but Padmé has decided it’s worth it. She longs to see her parents and her sister and she can hardly wait to introduce Ryoo and Pooja to their younger cousins. And Motée, after everything she’s done for their family, deserves to know that those efforts were not in vain. 

When she first requested this favor, she remembers thinking how sad it was that Anakin had no friends nor family out there left to contact. She had then quickly pushed away this train of thought before it could crash front-first into ’because they were all murdered.’ Her thoughts, of course, had mostly been with Anakin’s mother. The night of his almost-departure, when they had reconnected in the pool, well, it would have been an exaggeration to say that Anakin had opened up to her. But one of the things he _had_ said was that during his last two years in slavery, he would dream about his mother a lot. But now that he was free, those dreams had gone away, replaced by nightmares that offered no comfort and little rest. _She’s fading away again,_ he’d said._ She's fading from my memory._ He’d sounded so sad, almost… almost like there was a part of him that wanted to go back to his old life, just so he could see her again. And even as Padmé had prayed to the Force, to every cosmic entity in the universe that Anakin’s sleep may be peaceful and his dreams sweet once more, she’d known the hard truth. At the end of the day, or night, dreams were not reality and Shmi Skywalker was never coming back. 

But maybe… maybe there is someone out there that_ still… _

”There is… something. Maybe. It’s a long shot.”

”Anything,” Sabé promises. ”Just name it.” 

”Not something,” Padmé amends. ”Someone. Someone who… must really miss him, I think. Who… I think… would be most interested to hear the truth behind his short career as a Sith Lord.” 

”A relative?” Sabé guesses. 

A wistful smile teases Padmé’s lips. ”A little sister. Of sorts.”

A flash of surprise registers on Sabé’s face, then she just shrugs and says, ”Well, tell me about her. If she’s out there, I’ll find her.”

”Yes. But first…” 

She throws her arms around her friend, putting all her love and gratitude into the long and steadily tightening embrace. It’s a job and a half, alright. 

”Remember what I told you once?” she whispers into her hair. ”When we were starting up the recovery efforts after the Trade Federation crisis? I told you that someday, it would be your turn to receive. And remember what you told me back?”

She feels Sabé’s head bob against her shoulder. ”’But I already am.’” The head swivels from side to side. The sound waves from her chuckle reverberate against Padmé cheek. ”I was trying to sound inspiring.”

”Then you succeeded,” Padmé tells her. ”Because I remember thinking… that’s the way I want to live my life.”

”And you did,” Sabé reminds her. ”And I’m sure you will again. But remember… sometimes it’s okay to just… receive. And you waited long enough for your turn.” And Padmé is happy to just receive this token of her friend’s affection. Fond smiles are exchanged as they break apart. ”So tell me about this young woman."

-

Several weeks have passed since Anakin Skywalker was declared public enemy number one, and so far, Vader’s searches have come up empty. Initially, his strongest lead lay in Phindar, with the young woman that he himself had seen with Skywalker’s family and later identified as one of Queen Amidala’s former handmaidens and the current leader of a local relief organization. The Empire had wasted no time in raiding the headquarters, but the office had essentially been packed away along with all of the staff, with zero clues left in their wake. No one had seen or heard anything. The police were useless and responded to their intimidation attempts with nothing but the deepest apathy. The only solid piece of information they were able to extract was that the organization was under investigation for 'suspected rebel ties’. And now it seemed like they had shed their front of legitimacy once and for all and likely taken refuge with whatever rebel cell had been overseeing their criminal activities all along.

There is one other other avenue that might yet bear fruit. Bail Organa, the Senator from Alderaan, was recently arrested after the Empire intercepted a communication between himself and a fellow enemy of the state, Obi-Wan Kenobi. Kenobi and Skywalker share a long history and have almost certainly been in contact since the latter’s escape. So far, Organa has held out well under torture, but the Empress herself is convinced he knows more than he lets on. 

And so it is another day, another session for Vader. Recently moved to a secret underground facility on Coruscant, the prisoner inches ever closer to a breaking point, and with every passing day, less and less of his energy is spent on pointless displays of defiance. And today, Vader is going to try something new. 

In the hallway, Vader brushes past a pair of clones on guard duty. A brief, seemingly inconsequential encounter that nevertheless ends up sticking on the forefront of his mind a while after it passes. At the sight of their superior officer, the clones break off what seems like a private conversation and quickly wipe the smiles off their faces to salute him. Vader has been instructed to keep an eye on the clones, as there have been a few isolated cases of rebellion among their ranks, recently. But Vader doesn’t get the sense that these two were discussing anything that might suggest treachery. What he doesn't understand is why they would they be _laughing, _of all things. They’re on duty, this is hardly the time for such frivolities. 

It’s a minor, insignificant thing – but it frustrates him, sometimes, when he reaches the limits of his knowledge. Or rather, the vague line between knowledge and understanding. Vader has no shortage of knowledge. An entire library’s worth of knowledge about the inner workings of the Galaxy was uploaded into his brain while he was still developing in the tube. The highly elaborate skill set of one Anakin Skywalker was first stripped of errors and then injected into his muscle memory. He even remembers waking up on Kamino and having a moderate comprehension of extraverbal communication, recognizing the calming gestures and expressions that the lab assistant was employing. 

But for the few months that he has been awake, Vader has had to do plenty of studying, as well. More like hands-on practice, really. Apparently, things like life experience and good judgment are not something that can be learned from a synthetic memory or a prefabricated library of knowledge. While he recognizes most phenomena he runs into, understands them on a theoretical level, he sometimes has trouble applying his knowledge to specific situations. 

For instance, he is aware that more often than not, there exists a mutual affection and attachment between certain types of people, such as lovers, friends or members of a family. By default, his brain would have classified this information as necessary general knowledge, but ultimately useless in his line of work. He wouldn’t have thought to use it as an interrogation strategy. Not until Master Se herself taught him about human weaknesses and how whatever someone desires or cherishes can be used against them. 

”I've had enough of playing around, Organa,” he hisses at the captive sprawled out at his feet. ”I need results and I need them now. And if I can’t extract them from you…” 

Results or not, the last few weeks have taken their toll on the usually so dignified politician, who looks just about ready to be scraped off the cold floor of the prison cell. Shakily, Organa pushes himself up on his elbows and lifts his chin, revealing gaunt cheeks and blood-matted hair. There is a trace of alarm behind his pain-clouded gaze.

Vader tilts his head. ”Well. If you and Kenobi are such good friends… it doesn’t take a great leap of imagination to surmise that your royal wife might just share your rebel sympathies.”

”No!” Organa cries, raising a pleading hand, which causes his tenuous balance to collapse and leaves him scrabbling on the dirty floor. ”Leave her alone!” he begs nevertheless. ”It was all me, I kept it from her, she doesn’t know _anything_ –”

”No?” Vader pushes. ”Well, I need someone who does. So unless you can give me a name –”

Thin streams of tears fall down Organa's dirtied cheeks. ”Please! Leave her alone, she - her _health,_ she can't –”

”A name!” Vader demands. ”A planet, a person, I don’t care, but if_ you_ care about your wife, you will –” Vader cuts himself off as a choked syllable reaches his keen ears. ”What?” he presses, shoving his boot at Organa’s chest. 

”Comra,” the politician sobs, squirming at his feet. ”Comra…”

”Good, we’ve moved on to names now. Comra as in the Comra system?” 

”Comra… the last I heard… they were on Comra. Kenobi and…”

”Kenobi and Skywalker?” Vader still doesn’t know how, but almost as soon as Organa first set eyes on his torturer, he was able to correctly identify him as a clone, or an ’impostor’ as the prisoner had called him then. Not for the last time, Vader had wondered if he and his original template were really very similar at all. ”Where on Comra?”

”I don’t… I don’t know –” the prisoner whimpers. 

”Bet your wife does.” 

”Atalla! Atalla! Abandoned rebel base…”

_There it is._ Vader indulges in a satisfied sigh. He could have extracted this intel weeks ago had he known one simple fact about natural-born humans: that the love that binds them together is nothing very desirable at all. That the things they treasure, the things they allow to worm their way into their hearts, ultimately boil down to nothing but easily exploitable weaknesses. 

_That must be it. That's how we differ,_ Vader thinks as he turns on his heel, kicking dirt into the prisoner's mouth on his way out. _Skywalker and I. It's just another flaw in his design, another weakness of his that I don't share. _


	29. A Thin Line

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the 7th season of Clone Wars had not come out yet when I started writing this story, so unfortunately the Siege of Mandalore, awesome as it is, is not canon in this universe. so basically Anakin and Ahsoka said their final goodbyes in the Season 5 scene outside the Jedi temple.

Anakin wakes up as a vice-like grip closes around his neck. He starts choking and wheezing before he even knows what's happening, struggling wildly against the clammy grasp that wraps around his airway. Then his assailant’s features begin to take shape and recognition hits him like a punch to the gut, knocking the last few breaths of air from his lungs and leaving him paralyzed with horror. 

”Get up, you little slave rat,” Sidious commands as he releases his victim, with little regard to Anakin’s physical capability of carrying out the order, or lack thereof. And even as Anakin remains petrified, his feet seem to move on their own and swing over the side of the bed and come to a teetering stance against the floor. 

His windpipe burning from the choking, the wheezing coughs ripping through his throat send Anakin doubled over. He coughs and coughs until he can hardly stand it anymore, and yet it isn’t until Sidious demands, ”Quiet!” that the fit comes to an abrupt stop. 

Anakin heaves one last wheeze and opens his eyes. He lifts his trembling hands to find his mismatched palms dotted with spatters of blood. But then, just above the outline of his fingertips, something else swims into view. He squints his eyes against the sunlight that flows in from the corner of the room, and sees them; Luke and Leia playing and laughing as Padmé and Obi-Wan watch on fondly. 

Padmé meets her husband's eyes briefly before her attention darts to the Emperor. Mirroring their mother’s actions, Luke and Leia start to turn on their heel, but Obi-Wan steps protectively in front of them before Anakin can see their faces. 

”Please,” Anakin pleads with Sidious, knowing all too well what’s about to happen. ”Not in front of my family. Not in front of my kids.” 

Merciless, gleaming eyes stare back at him from under a dark hood. ”You presume to give me orders?” 

”No, no,” Anakin panics. His legs give way and he crumples onto his knees. The blood on his hands smears large wet marks on the carpeting as his palms press against the floor. ”No, Master, never.”

”Your family hates you,” Sidious hisses. ”They’re too good to say it, but they all hate you for what you’ve done.”

Anakin lifts his head from the floor as a rush of defiance erupts in his chest. ”No, that’s not true, they _care_ about me, they told me themselves –”

But when he looks up at the figures standing over him, their faces appear distorted and grotesque. Anakin falls back on his elbows as horror overwhelms him. Their eyes seethe with anger and their mouths are twisted into animal-like snarls. 

”No, no,” he objects, ”this is all a lie, none of this is real,” he averts his eyes from the creatures and raises them to Sidious, ”_you’re_ not real, I _killed_ you!” 

”Ah, yes. That you did, my boy, that you did.” Sidious’ mouth arranges itself into a grimace a hundred-fold more terrible than all those warped faces looming above him combined. There is a certain note of pride in the yellow gaze that sweeps over Anakin's prone form. ”After all, that is the only purpose you were ever any good for. Killing.” 

Suddenly, a sharp rumbling sound thunders forth from above. The sunlight dims away as a garish blue descends over them and the corners of the room begin to grow elongated and twisted out of shape. 

Anakin holds up his palms again as he feels a heaviness weighing down his hands, stretching them thin along with the rest of the room. To his terror, he finds that the little drops of blood from earlier have been drowned out by the fresh, thickening trickles that ooze from flesh and metal alike. He looks down and sees that not only is he naked, but the scars on his chest are burning as dense, sticky streams of crimson run down his body. 

He wants to cry out, but the sound gets buried away as he starts gagging on blood. A gushing torrent of red has broken through the ceiling, drowning him in its wet, warm embrace and separating him from the receding forms of his family. And Anakin is fumbling for them and screaming through the clots of blood in his throat, when one of the shadows reaches through the cascade and – 

”Anakin! Anakin! Wake up! It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re safe!” 

The flow of blood runs dry, though the darkness remains. Anakin isn’t aware of much beyond flailing movement his arms are making and the desperate gasps for air that tear through his thoat. ”Anakin,” the shadow in front of him whispers as it slowly begins to sharpen at the corners and assume a human shape. At first, his mind offers one of those warped, monstrous faces, and he recoils, only for those unnatural features to melt into the gentle, familiar visage of Obi-Wan Kenobi. 

And Anakin is sobbing and hyperventilating and unable to tear his eyes away, because in that moment, those features are his sole link to reality and to sanity and to life itself. ”I’m sorry,” he whines quietly. ”I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” 

”It’s alright,” Obi-Wan reassures him again, a warm hand drawing comforting vertical shapes up and down his shoulder. Gradually, Anakin’s awareness broadens beyond their little space at the foot of his bed, noting the pale blue light filtering in through the window, the soft waves greeting the shore across a short distance and the gentle wind blowing through the palm trees outside. ”It was just a nightmare. There’s no need to be sorry.” 

”I’m sorry I tortured you,” Anakin breathes. ”I’m sorry I tried to kill you.” 

Obi-Wan blinks, the whites of his eyes flickering against the contrasting dark. Then he assumes that familiar expression of saint-like patience that Anakin has seen a thousand times before. This isn’t the first time he’s apologized to Obi-Wan, either. It is maybe the fifth or sixth time. ”Anakin, we’ve been through this,” the other man whispers gently. ”It wasn’t your fault. You cannot be held responsible for anything you did under the chip’s influence. You didn’t have a choice. It was all Palpatine’s doing.”

_… Palpatine’s doing._ Anakin knows this speech by heart now. He supposes repetition really is the mother of all learning, as they say, because on his better days, he even believes it. But once again, he finds, he doesn’t really _want_ to believe it. Maybe someday, once he accepts the fact, his heart will finally know rest. By right now, he knows that neither his heart nor his mind will get any more rest tonight unless he relieves them both of the load that he can finally put into words. ”Maybe. But Palpatine isn’t here to apologize, and even if he were, he wouldn’t. And even if he did, he wouldn’t be sorry. But I am.” 

A soft smile forms on Obi-Wan lips. ”You know, Rex said something very similar to me back on Alderaan, when we were planning your rescue.”

Anakin feels a warmness blossom in his chest at hearing the words ’your rescue’. He remembers the good old times when that same word combination would have implied a cause for embarrassment, or at least something to be accompanied with a smug smirk and countered with an eyeroll. There’s a lot of fond nostalgia attached to those memories, and every so often he will miss those times; the adventures, the banter, even the petty disagreements between the Master and Padawan. And even back then, of course, there was always genuine gratitude involved whenever one of them would get rescued by the other. But now, having survived what he has… it is something deeper than gratitude that Anakin feels, filling up his heart and washing the residual terror from the nightmare away. Making every struggle, every reminder of the recent past a little more bearable. 

But mixed with that new, deeper sort of gratitude there are other feelings. Guilt and shame that no amount of reassuring words can ever truly erase. ”And, you know…” Anakin adds. ”It’s the other way around, too. There are so many people that I want to apologize to… but I can’t. It doesn’t matter if it was Palpatine’s doing or not. They’re still gone. They’re all gone.” 

Obi-Wan lowers his gaze. ”That’s very noble of you to say, Anakin,” he whispers. "But it is still my dearest wish that someday… someday soon… you will be free of the burden that their unjust deaths have put on your shoulders. It is not yours to carry.” Anakin gives a rueful tilt of his head. ”I know,” Obi-Wan acknowledges. ”Easier said than done.” 

A silence falls between the two men as both of them suddenly become aware of something at the same time. The last several hours of tossing and turning have left Anakin’s sleep tunic open at the front, revealing the elaborate set of scars on his chest. 

Obi-Wan has seen those scars before, though. In fact, he confessed a while ago that he first saw them back when he brought an unconscious Anakin to the guesthouse on Lianna and helped to dispose of his sweat-drenched Sith robes and dress him in clean sleeping clothes. Still, he didn’t try to pressure Anakin to talk about the experience that had led to the scars’ creation, for which Anakin was thankful. He just isn’t ready, and even if he was, he would still lack the words. With every passing day, he feels a little better, his mind a little clearer, his heart a little less heavy. And with each passing day, he seems to gain new words that he can wield against the unbidden guests that come at night, to banish the ghosts that continue to haunt his nightmares. New words that he can weave together in his head, at his own pace, to be spoken aloud and released into the Force when the time is right. 

But there are some things that still elude his grasp, that seem to dissolve into empty air when Anakin tries to give them words. On one hand… what’s there to talk about? It’s just a bunch of stupid scars carved into his flesh by the sharp edge of transparisteel. He’s been through worse… much worse. And obviously any literate, Basic-knowing person can easily read what it says, right there, slashed in letters of blood and skin across his chest. 

On the other… well, that’s just it. He doesn’t know what’s on the other hand, for that is where his understanding ends. Why is it so painful to talk about? Why is it so difficult to name that pain, that searing knife that seems to cut short his words, to cut open every individual gash whenever he tries?

Still, he doesn’t mind when Obi-Wan gingerly reaches out, just stopping short of touching the gruesome pattern, and offers a few words of his own. ”They’re starting to show some signs of… fading. At least, in this light, it looks that way.” After a pause, he amends, ”Healing. I think that might be a better word. They’re starting to show signs of healing.” 

Anakin notes the puffy rings etched around his friend’s eyes. ”You should go back to sleep.”

Obi-Wan nods. ”Just… one last thing.” He leans down and wraps his arms around Anakin, pulling him into a soft embrace. The warmth in Anakin’s chest ripples in waves through his body, spreading from the innermost recesses of his core to the very surface of his extremities, to every patch of skin and metal alike. 

It’s not the first time Obi-Wan has hugged him. After all, the older man has known Anakin since he was a needy little 9-year-old who just wanted his mom. But it is the first time that Obi-Wan has hugged him… like this.

Once again, Anakin lacks the words to describe it.

”Good night,” Obi-Wan whispers over his shoulder. 

”Good night, Obi-Wan.”

-

If there is anything that seems to be the sole constant in the eventful life of Padmé Amidala, it is water. Growing up on her lush home planet of Naboo, the summers of her childhood spent splashing around in the blue lakes of Varykino. Facing the Trade Federation crisis as a young and inexperienced monarch, finding allies in the most unlikely of places, in the underwater city of Otoh Gunga. Falling in love while visiting the crystalline waters of her girlhood years, tying the knot on the balcony overlooking her favorite spot. Going into exile mere days after her own water had broken, taking refuge in the outskirts of the picturesque port town of Tempora. Settling along the Temmer river to carve out a quiet existence with her newly expanded (and shrunken) family. Reuniting with the family she thought she’d lost on the banks overlooking those same, gentle waves. 

Escaping Imperial custody to a new temporary home, where a pool in the basement would become witness to their first happy reunion as a family, to a captive soldier back from the war taking his first, timid steps towards being a father. A place where the sound of rain lashing against transparisteel would become the music to which she danced with her dearly missed husband for the first time in so, so long. 

And now, a new leaf has once again been turned in their lives, washed ashore along with the fronds from the palm trees that line the beaches of their private little paradise. If one were to hop on a boat and keep rowing beyond the far reaches of the horizon, they would eventually arrive to a larger continent, covered in the grand blue mountain ranges and uncharted jungles that dominate the terrain of Sarka. The furthest and the most beautiful in a string of small patches of land scattered along the coastline, their home island once belonged to an eccentric billionaire and his family of six. The founder of an engineering company that had immediately rung a bell with Anakin when he’d heard it, the man and his wife had apparently moved away to a more humble dwelling once their children had grown up. According to Sabé, another reason for the move was that the couple wished to give their talents to the Rebellion, but she wouldn’t know anything about that. 

The two-storey house that stands in the center of the island serves as a further testament to the original owner’s unassuming nature, as it is by no means extravagant. While certainly airy and spacious, the rooms are furnished in a simple and cozy fashion and equipped with the standard necessities for family living. Still, the retired engineer clearly had a soft spot for his kids, because he must have spent several years and no small amount of credits on transforming the garden into the most amazing playground Padmé has ever seen. Swing sets, tree houses, climbing frames, secret passageways… you name it, it’s probably there – or yet to be discovered, because the yard is _that_ large and abounding in distractions. 

Beneath the house proper, there is a storeroom/workshop chock-full of outdated products from the company, half-finished personal projects as well as spare parts and scrap metal. If Luke and Leia’s jaws had dropped to the ground when they had first set their eyes on the playground, their father had seemingly ascended to another plane of existence when he’d stepped into the treasure trove that had awaited him underground. It was like watching a flower blossom in real time, seeing one of those shrinking little buds obscured by the shadows of their own leaves flourish into the most beautiful bloom in the garden. A rare, industrious sort of bloom that had immediately proceeded to pick up a hydrospanner in one hand and a piece of silver plating in the other and declared, ”I have so many ideas."

One of those ideas is, at the present moment, zooming through the playground, conveying two little passengers as their pilot steers them across the air via remote control. Happy shrieks of laughter follow in the wake of their circuitous route as the twins keep clamoring for ’more jumps and loops!’ while their father shakes their head, although not in denial. 

”The seatbelts _will_ hold, I promise,” he assures to their mildly terrified audience. 

”It’s not the flying part I’m worried about,” Obi-Wan snorts. ”Your piloting skills, after all, are legendary. Whereas your track record of safely conducted landings is far less flattering.” 

”Okay, you two,” Anakin calls to Luke and Leia as they wave their tiny arms in the air, ”why don’t we try landing now, just to put Uncle Obi’s mind at ease.”

”No, no!” the twins protest in unison and demand for more crazy loops. 

”See?” a triumphant grin spreads over Anakin’s face as he turns the lever on the control panel and grants their wish. ”They don’t even _want_ to land, so you have nothing to worry about.”

”Consider me reassured,” Obi-Wan sighs, though his tone betrays a suppressed smile. Then, before Padmé can trade wry smirks with him, his expression shifts as something on his mind seems to distract him. 

”What is it?” Padmé asks. Obi-Wan turns to her in surprise. 

”Ah, it’s just…” he waves his hand by his temple. ”Just had this memory pop in my head all of a sudden. Memory of someone I used to know on Colstev. Someone who I think… would really love to go for a spin in that awful, awful contraption.” He bobs his head in the minispeeder’s direction, already hurtling halfway across the other side of the yard by the time he’s done nodding. ”The seats are a little small for him, but…” 

”Oh,” Padmé utters, suddenly feeling bad. When she asked Sabé to relay the news of her survival to her closest friends and family, it never occurred to her that Obi-Wan might have someone out there that he misses, too, or who might miss him. In fact, she distinctly recalls him saying that he lived as a hermit on Colstev, giving the cold shoulder to any offers of companionship. 

Before Obi-Wan can respond, a familiar beeping sound draws Padmé’s attention away. ”Hold that thought,” she tells Obi-Wan as she delves into her skirt pocket and pulls out her holoprojector. Recognizing the code, she gestures a quick ’be right back’ to her husband and kids and starts heading along the garden path towards the house. 

”Sabé, it’s been a while,” she greets, delighted as the blue, miniature form of her friend springs up on her palm. ”How is everything?”

”Everything is great,” her friend replies with a smile. ”Rex and Kix say hi. We followed your husband’s instructions and have already managed to hijack several communication frequencies used by the Imperial military. So far we have managed to convert more than one hundred thousand clones to our cause just by… well, talking to them. Most of them are still staying undercover so as to be able to stage a more large-scale uprising when the time is right. Be sure to pass on my thanks to General Skywalker.” 

”One hundred thousand,” Padmé sighs happily as she ascends the steps to the porch, which she has recently decorated with dried flowers and palm fronds. ”That’s wonderful news!”

”Yes, it is,” Sabé agrees. ”We also managed to hack into the Imperial database and finally know where Bail Organa and a few other political prisoners are being kept. We’re hoping to stage a rescue mission in the next few days… Force willing, as they say.”

”Please, promise me you’ll be careful,” Padmé urges, though her heart aches at the thought of her old friend and ally having to spend another minute in imprisonment. It would be awful enough on its own, but she has recently learned of the role Bail played in Anakin’s rescue, which has rendered the idea nothing short of unbearable. 

”I promise,” Sabé assures her. 

”Any other news?” Padmé asks, hearing the pitch of her voice rise with the hope that awakens in her heart. They both know exactly what – and _whom_ – she’s so eager to hear news about. She still dearly, desperately misses her family – but there are only so many tidings to be relayed from their blissfully normal lives. Sola cried happy tears for a week. Ruwee and Jobal cannot wait to meet the newest additions to the family and are still waiting to hear the ’long story’ behind the father. Ryoo is still at the top of her class. 

”Oh… yeah. Almost forgot.” Sabé scratches at her neck. Even through the blue filter of the hologram, Padmé can see a tight expression settling over her friend's face. ”Thanks for reminding me.” She gives an odd huff of laughter, as though she’s making some kind of joke about not wanting to talk about the whole thing at all. 

A sudden pang of alarm plunges through Padmé’s chest. Wild theories and scenarios each more horrendous than the last start flitting through her head. _What if… No, surely not._ But still… Anakin has not mentioned his long-lost Padawan even once since they settled into their new life of freedom and togetherness. Not once since he started… well, talking about things. Well, she’s sure there are still plenty of things he won’t talk about, things too painful for him to put into words, even now, but… what if one of them were… 

_Oh no. _

_Was Ahsoka not trained as a Jedi?_

_And was it not Anakin’s job to hunt down Jedi?_

”Sabé…” Padmé hears her voice quiver as all these new horrors threaten to burst through her chest and splatter over the porch like vomit. 

”Oh, no no no no no,” Sabé rushes to say, hearing the suppressed panic behind her friend's tone. ”She’s fine. I met her. I talked to her. She’s fine, not a scratch on her.” 

Relief washes over Padmé and her chest loosens up. She's so relieved, in fact, that she has to take a moment to gather herself, turning away from the hologram to peer over the garden. Far away, she can just make out Anakin throwing and catching Leia in his arms after helping her off the minispeeder. ”Well… what did she say?”

Sabé’s face hardens again. ”I didn’t think it wise to divulge your whereabouts to her at this time,” she replies, dodging the question. ”And I didn’t get a chance to mention the twins, or even you, so… she doesn’t know.” 

Padmé frowns. _Divulge? Didn’t get a chance?_ What is she even talking about?

Sabé’s lips part and stay that way for a beat as her train of thought seems to circle back and take her back to the beginning. ”I… well, I told her the truth. About everything. Darth Vader, and the clones… the control chips…”

”And?” Padmé presses. It’s so strange seeing her usually so self-assured friend hesitate and stumble over her words like this. Her gaze wanders into the distance again, where Anakin topples onto the grass in mock defeat as Luke and Leia climb over his overwhelmed form. 

Sabé shakes her head. ”She was… not ready to hear it. She told me – she wouldn’t listen to anything I had to say.”

”…What did she tell you?”

”She told me that he… that Vader killed someone she loved.”


End file.
